


Yours, yours, yours

by TheLibrarian (es101wx)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2019-11-12 22:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 21,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18019808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/es101wx/pseuds/TheLibrarian
Summary: Every time she looks at him, she can feel her breath stop in her throat and blood boil in her veins. And still, she's so good at not giving herself up in front of everyone else she thinks she'd deserved an award.When he looks at her, though, he can't help to wonder why on earth she seems so irremediably taken by him. Not that he complains, of course.





	1. Chapter 1

It's forbidden, she knows it. They forbade him to her - meeting with him,  _seeing_ him. Being in the same room with him. 

And all because of his reputation, because of all the stupid "they say..." of the world revolving around them.  _They say_ he's evil as much as he's powerful.  _They say_ he has no heart, in business as in his life.  _They say_ he can destroy everything he touches, whenever he likes.  _They say_ he's an old bastard, and that it's been really inconvenient and unfortunate that she found herself in the seat next to him at the opera, all those nights before. 

 _They say_ , Sansa thinks as she slips carefully out of her office and heads to the elevators,  _but they don't know a fucking thing about him_. 

He's powerful, yes, but he's not evil - not with people who don't deserve his ire, at least. 

And he's got a heart, and in the right place - he just doesn't wear it on his sleeve. 

His hands are the hands of a man who likes to shape the reality around himself - how can this be wrong, when you're one of the richest men in the Country? 

And no - being seated one next to the other that night at the opera was everything but inconvenient or unfortunate. What had been inconvenient and unfortunate was that her brother  _saw them_. 

She casts a quick glance at the corridor - it's unlikely that someone's still at work at this hour, especially after she'd made clear she was to leave the office in the middle of the afternoon, but you can't be too careful. Her brothers both think her being at her favorite spa for two hours, after all, but anyone could see her and report her presence in the building...

She shrugs.

The corridor's deserted, and so are the elevators. She can guess a very few people would be still working at 7 - and she can only hope  _one_ man is actually still working at 7, twelve floors above her head. 


	2. Chapter 2

The impressive glass doors are locked, but Sansa knows where to look for a sign of an occupant - and there it is, right in the left corner, on the leaves of the ficus benjamina: the glowing reflex of lights still on. She pats her pockets, picks the keys he gave her - and why should a man like him, a business rival like him, be considered a monster, when he even gave her  _full access to his realm_? 

Sometimes Robb and Jon can be so utterly stupid. Well, they don't know about the keys, of course, for they'd start asking questions she has no desire to answer to, but even so... There's something intoxicating, in the idea of outsmarting her older brothers. Quietly closing the doors behind herself, Sansa removes her shoes and walks the carpeted corridor just in her stockings, her heels in her left hand and her heart in her throat. 

How can he possibly have such an effect over her, is such a mystery to her. She isn't even sure he's still in his office, he could just have forgotten the lights on, for goodness' sake!, and still, her breath is increasing and her stomach is a knot. 

He didn't forget the lights on, though, and Sansa can't help but smile affectionately when he sees him sitting behind his desk, glasses on and the bridge of his nose pressed between thumb and index finger. He's reading something on his laptop, but there is a low, almost background sound - discrete and elegant, the soft but intense tone of a cello playing Bach. 

Sansa resists the urge to look at her own arms - she knows the goosebump is there. Cello is her greatest weakness, her favourite musical instrument. Cello has been their first topic of conversation. Cello with his stern composure and deep voice - cello, so similar to him in so many ways. 

So, almost reluctantly, Sansa finally gives a soft cough and Tywin Lannister averts his gaze from his work. 

"You shouldn't be here," he says.


	3. Chapter 3

"You shouldn't be here," he says, because at least one of them should show an ounce of common sense. Because she's so beautiful, in that dark grey dress and with her shoes in her hand, it almost hurts. 

"You shouldn't have given me the key, then," she smiles, and sweetness radiates from her like warmth does from the sun. "Is it the music archive I gave you?"

Tywin nods imperceptibly. "Guilty."

"I'm glad you like it." 

None of them has moved: the Old Lion is still seated at his desk, the young Wolf Girl is still leaning against the doorframe, the music (his music? Hers?  _Theirs_?) still plays softly in the background. It could almost seem nothing at all, to an untrained eye. 

There are the details, though. 

There's her heart, beating so furiously she sometimes finds herself wondering how on earth is possible that no-one else seems to hear it, too. 

There's his jaw, less clenched than usual, less severe, less threatening.

And there's the way her lips move, imperceptibly, like they're on the brink of a glorious smile. The way she blinks, in the desperate attempt to not give up so easily to the desire of smiling to him like he was the pivotal point of her life.

Or his calmness, which is not his usual, predatorial stillness. When she's around him, he doesn't radiate tension - he emanates self-confidence and composure, yes, but in a reassuring way - like the good feeling of being wrapped in a warm coat when everything around is covered in snow. 

He pushes back his presidential chair and stands up. She bends slightly in order to put her shoes back on, but she doesn't break their eye contact. 

Tywin slowly crosses his office without being able to take his eyes from Sansa - who, on her part, drinks in every detail of him, wondering how can he manage to look as perfect and impeccable as if he'd dressed a moment before. 

His hands raise to her elbows without actually touching her - Sansa tilts her head, she knows what's coming. 

"You know you shouldn't be here," he gently warns her, and behind his gravity, she recognizes something she can't name properly but tastes like the sadness she's lived with during the last week. 

"I know," she confesses, "And I tried. I tried, Tywin, I promise, I tried." She doesn't move, content just in feeling the warmth of his body so close to hers. "But I can't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, guys, problem is - I CAN'T STOP WRITING ABOUT THEM! (and that I will go down with this ship, too, but hey, that's another story :P)  
> Enjoy!!!


	4. Chapter 4

"Sansa..."

"I know. I know," she says once again, and now her eyes wander - far from his gaze, far from his face. She's suddenly sad, he can see it: her lips are trembling, her blue eyes empty, but she doesn't give in to her emotions and he admires her even more for that. "I miss you," she whispers, and her voice is tiny, frail. He hates himself for not replying - but, then again, one of them at least has to show a bit of common sense... And his age requires  _he_ is that one. He just stands there, in front of her, his palms barely touching her arms, and doesn't say a word. "Tell me you don't miss me," she pleads, "tell me you didn't miss me these past days, and I'll believe you, but..." 

In the silence, in the mute stasis of their bodies facing each other, the sweet, deep voice of the cello continues its talk. 

"Tell me, please," Sansa insists. When once again no reply comes, she lets her upper body sag a bit, until she's leaning more heavily against his hands. Fascinated, Tywin Lannister doesn't stop her. He just looks at her, amazed and enchanted, as she moves closer, inch by inch, 'til her lips are almost touching his. "Tell me you didn't miss me," she whispers, and she looks so sad and beautiful, so scared and full of hopes, that he just _cannot_ bring himself to lie. 

"I tried," he says, mirroring her words. "I tried, but..." 

 _No_ , his mind kicks in,  _no: you cannot admit you failed_. So he doesn't - not with words, at least. And he ducks his head and finally meets _her_ , cups her cheeks in his hands and kisses her - not the crushing, rough kiss he has sometimes dreamt of welcoming her back with during those days of separation, but something different, something warm and caring and full of all the respect he has for her and the kindness he never thought he had in him. 

His fingers sink into her hair, ruining her simple hairdo and rubbing her scalp, and there's nothing more stupid than the whole idea of  _common sense_ \- there is no common sense left at all, he knows, not an ounce in his entire body; he finds himself completely incapable of thinking straight - not with her hand caressing his back, not with her mouth opening for him. "Oh, Gods, I missed you," he exhales, and Sansa's lips smile under his kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all - you're the best of followers, and I love you, and I thank you SO much!  
> I don't know for how long will I be able to keep this pace in writing, but HEY, at the moment these two are pestering me, and what else can I do?  
> I'll admit I wasn't sure about this ship, too, initially - but they go under your skin, and out of the sudden, woosh, you're doomed. And you have to write about them.  
> I appreciate your support more than I am capable to express - thank you, thank you, thank you!!!


	5. Chapter 5

There are chairs, in Tywin Lannister's office. Two luxurious, comfortable chairs, symmetrically positioned in front of his desk. And four other, neatly placed around the glass table for closed briefings. 

There's also a sofa - a dark brown Chesterfield which screams money and elegance and power. 

Nevertheless, Tywin Lannister - CEO of WesternLannister Corporation and richest man of the region if not of the whole Westeros - and Sansa Stark are currently sitting on the floor, watching intently at the view in front of them. For the whole wall on the right of Tywin's desk is basically an enormous window, and the view over King's Landing is simply breathtaking. 

Sat on the floor with his long legs spread and knees bent and Sansa nestled between them, the Old Lion enjoys the- _no_ , he's not just enjoying the view. He's enjoying the view  _through his young friend's eyes_ , her amazed expression, her head lightly bent against his jaw. He's enjoying the way her back perfectly adheres to his chest, her perfume. Sleeves rolled up and head resting against his desk's side panel, he basks in the sensation of how perfectly right her left arm feels, laying abandoned over his, or their right hands, intertwined over her stomach. 

"You didn't want to admit you missed me," she prodded him, "and still, I found you here, alone, listening to my Bach..."

"Don't push your luck, miss Stark," he warns her, amused.

"I pushed my luck sneaking up here - considering the outcome, I'd say it's a good thing when I do, Mr. Lannister." 

Tywin lowers his head, starts kissing the side of her neck. "Point taken," he murmurs.


	6. Chapter 6

"Do you have plans for tonight?" Sansa asks softly, eyes closed and face buried against his neck. Somehow she managed to turn and slightly change position, and now she's sitting like she were in his lap - only she isn't, and she's still sitting on the floor between his legs, but whereas his left leg still provides her with support for her back the right one isn't bent anymore: it's  _her_ legs, now, to be bent, and resting lightly on his upper thigh as he absentmindedly caresses her left knee. 

"You found me working well past the time - have a guess." 

His voice is low and intense and she loves how it does resonate in his chest, the way she can  _feel it_ , not just  _hear it_. She inhales deeply, filling her nostrils and lungs with his good scent. 

Her hand joins his on her knee. "I missed you so much I thought I was going crazy," she says rubbing her thumb on his freckled skin. 

"They're not wrong, though. You know that."

Sansa sighs heavily, snuggles more comfortably against him. "They don't even know what they're complaining about. They still think our seats at the Opera were just an unlucky inconvenient. What they grumble about is just that you were paying me a drink, they have no idea..." 

"No?"

"They don't even  _suspect_."

"But it's been  _weeks_!" 

"You, of all people, should know better than underestimate me," she smirks. Tywin can't resist her smirk, they both know - so she's more than ready when he tightens his grip on her and claims her lips. 


	7. Chapter 7

"We'd better stop." It's Tywin who breaks the kiss, Tywin who puts at least a little distance between them by closing his hands on her shoulder. Sansa looks up at him and her eyes are shining, darker than before. The shadow of a smile - a wicked smile - dances on her lips.

"I disagree." She's no naive girl. She recognizes his sudden uneasiness, his change in position - she's recognized the  _reason_. 

"Sansa..." 

And she smiles - not wickedly nor wantonly: she just smiles, and it's the kind of warm, affectionate smile she saves for him an no-one else. 

"It's bound to happen, sooner or later," she reminds him. 

He stands, helps her back on her feet. "As far as I know, your precious brothers are asking for my head - and, as per your own words,  _because of a drink_. I doubt that fucking you in my office could improve the situation, don't you?" Sansa rolls her eyes and crosses the room, chooses a bottle from the display case and pours brandy into two snifters, handling one to him. 

"Don't try to impress me with curse-words, Tywin. I know it's not you, so it won't discourage me."

Tywin shakes his head, takes a gulp of brandy. "How can you be so sure about it?" he teases her. "Men with my means are quite renowned for taking advantage of beautiful, young girls less than half their age. I dare to say, your brothers are right about that."

"If you were that kind of man," Sansa smiled putting down her glass and starting to trace his suspenders with her fingertips, "you'd surely had acted, by now. No-one can say we've been short on occasions..." She kisses him lightly at the corner of his mouth - a chaste, thoughtful kiss, full of all the faith she puts in him. Tywin draws her near, hugs her. 

"Call me old-fashioned, but I cannot think of making love to you for the first time on a desk or a sofa," he whispers in her hair. 

"See? I was right," Sansa gloats, her soft lips resting against his pulse. 

"You were right, yes." His hands land over her hips, thumbs caressing her through the fabric.

"Take me home, then..."

Tywin chuckles. "Easy, Sansa. Not tonight. Not the first time you slip out of your family's watch after ten days of being apart."

"But-"

"I said no. Look, earlier tonight I was planning to scan this and send it to you by email, but since you're here..." 

He reaches for his suit jacket, picking an envelope from the inside pocket. Sansa takes it and opens it - and immediately recognizes the crest of the Opera House. 

"What does it mean?"

"It means, it would make me happy if you joined me for Saturday night's  _Tosca_. No stalls this time, mind you - I booked a box."

Sansa can't help but smile. "But there are  _three_ tickets in here!"

"Yes, that's your... well, let's call it Contingency Plan. Should Robb appear unannounced like the last time, you will be able to show him you're not with me." 

"But I will."

"Yes."

"With you."

"Yes."

"In a box."

"Yes."

"Mh. With other people?"

"Please, Miss Stark. What do you take me for?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes - I made Tywin a bit more of a gentleman than usual. Don't know really why, it just...happened, sort of?


	8. Chapter 8

\---  _ten nights before_ \--- 

Sansa gets into the taxi slamming the door, furious with her brother like she's never been in her whole life. 

She had known from the beginning -  _they_ had known from the beginning - that a night out, at the Opera no less, would have been a leap. Of course, it was. He's a public figure, a man whose face is potentially recognizable wherever he goes, and she is...  _Well_. She's quite known, too. She's his old rival's eldest daughter, a socialite with a brilliant pedigree and iconic red hair that makes her virtually unmistakable... 

Still, it was time they try. Try to sit in public, side by side; try to be  _normal_. 

It had been a leap, yes, but  _gods_ , it had felt so good. 

Not that they had arrived together, of course. They hadn't even brushed hands, truth to be told. They had  _accidentally met_ while seating, exchanged a polite but formal greeting, and enjoyed the music - along with the sheer pleasure of that mutual closeness. 

They had met, again, during the break, in front of the bar, when he had  _casually_ listened to her order - a Diet Coke with ice, for goodness' sake! - and offered to pay for it. Which, shyly, she had accepted - and suddenly, everything had gone south. 

Robb had appeared out of nowhere, huffing and grumbling and making such a fuss about all of it that Tywin had preferred to just abandon the scene. It had been  _so utterly embarrassing_! 

Sansa fights with her tears while the taxi drives across town. She's running away, she knows, but she couldn't stand one more word from her brother - not after he'd made such a scene, not after he's been so... _rude_ with Tywin! And for nothing, furthermore. 

She freezes in her seat -  _Tywin_! Surely he will not want to see her ever again, after this night. A man in his position can't possibly tolerate such a display of embarrassing behaviour, can he?

Her throat tightens, tears are more and more on the brink of being shed. She clenches her jaw - there will be time for tears, once she'll be home, but not now, not in the back seat of a cab, not with a stranger casting worried looks in the rear mirror. No. She has to be the kind of woman Tywin can be proud of - because she is, she knows she is. 

Her phone buzzes, startling her.

 


	9. Chapter 9

_\- Are you ok?_  

Sansa smiles sadly and types back, hurriedly.

_\- I'm so sorry..._

Another buzz.

_\- Didn't answer, though._

_\- Not ok, no. Mad. Sad. And *oh-so-sorry*._

_\- It's not you who should be sorry._

_\- Robb's my brother, I'd say it's inevitable._

_\- He was protecting you, I'd say it was understandable._

She pays the driver, enters her building - basically, she's delaying the moment when she'll have to reply. She hates when he plays the reasonable man. It's so infuriating, and she's tired of people trying to patronize her. At 25 she's positive she should be seen as her own woman - for at 25  _she is_ her own woman. 

Once the door's closed and she's kicked her shoes away, she lets herself drop inelegantly on her couch, reading his last text one more time. There's no reply to a thing like that. So she drops the bomb. 

-  _He was adamant: I must NOT talk to you ever again, let alone being in the same room with you. And starting with tomorrow, he'll *keep a close eye* on me._

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

In his apartment, Tywin Lannister looks intently at the glass of whiskey he's just poured. Maybe it's a good thing - they're starting to seem too involved with one another, and undoubtedly this whole story qualifies as scandal material... Maybe a clean cut is the better way out. 

He hesitates for a moment, his thumb on the display. Is he indulging too much in his self-satisfaction, seeing a woman like Sansa? Is he making a fool of himself? What if hers is nothing more than a childish crush? He hesitates. What if she'd decide to be with him just to spite her family? 

_\- Is that what you want?_

_\- Are you crazy? NO!_

Her reply is almost immediate. He sighs. It had occurred to him rarely, but he doesn't know what to say. She seems sincere; she always seems so sincere...

- _Tywin, I want YOU. Don't you even DARE to think otherwise._

The Old Lion smiles - how can she be aware of his doubts? How on earth can she read his silence so easily? 

-  _I won't force you, Sansa. You are your own woman, you can do whatever pleases you - this including to get rid of me._

She sighs heavily, gritting her teeth as she types back.

_\- I warned you: *don't you dare*._

_\- Make good use of this time under close supervision, Miss Stark. Think. Let your anger cool down._

Sansa's eyes are once again full of tears. 

_\- You're dumping me, aren't you._

_\- I'm just encouraging you to find out what you actually want._

_\- BS!_

_\- Maybe, maybe not._

_\- Stop it!_

Now, fact is - he could actually  _stop it_. He could put an end to it all and make everyone happy - save from himself, yes, but after all, he's more at ease with himself when unhappy, so you could consider it a win... 

Yes, he _could_ stop it.

And still, he can't. 

_\- Close your eyes, now. Close your eyes and *imagine*._

Her fingers tremble, hovering over the display.

_\- Imagine...what?_

He types slowly, pondering every single word. 

\- _Imagine me, Miss Stark. Me,_ _kissing you. And I want you to keep this kiss as a memento of what's at stake - then, as I said, let your anger cool down. Do whatever your brother wants. Don't overreact. And think. Again and again and again. With my kiss keeping you company until you reach a decision._

When Sansa finally falls asleep, she still has that smile on her lips and she's determined to do as he suggested.

After all, he can be infuriating and insufferable when playing the rational one, yes, but in the present circumstance he's also right, and she's too smart not to take his opinion into due account.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm late... Bloody RL! ^_^

\---  _present day ---_  

 

"I'd call it an excellent idea," Sansa approves, snuggling once again between his arms.  _Gods, what his cologne makes to her_. 

"I'm glad you approve of it - does it mean I can plan on your company?"

Sansa raises her head and looks at him squarely in the face. "My, my, what a silly question." Absentmindedly, she starts tracing his suspenders. "Any preferences on what should I wear?" 

He knows it's a risk. She will probably stand out even more than usual, this way, but he can't help to- "Black," he murmurs in her ear. She's outrageously beautiful, in black. 

"Black it is, then." Another caress over his back, another slow, sensual kiss to the side of his neck - he's not exactly sure how, or when, her fingers have managed to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt, but for one long, glorious moment he's at her mercy, overwhelmed by her lips kissing and sucking just over his collarbone.

"Sansa..."

"I wanted to leave you a tiny reminder," she smirks, and he understands. He smirks back, then - and there's a feline quality in his expression, something of the predator they say he is. 

"Mh. I wonder whether should I reciprocate," he says as his right hand traces the hem of her dress' v-neck. Sansa's head falls back as she offers him her throat. 

"I suppose it would be kind... And I won't complain, I promise..." 

Tywin's mouth descends on her, leaving a trail of soft kisses down her neck and throat and cleavage - just above her left breast, though, he stops: where flesh is softer and firmer at the same time, the lion feasts on his prey, giving in to both his and her deepest desire. "Here," he says approvingly, admiring the red mark of his lovebite on her white skin, "here's your little memento..."

Sansa lets him help her to readjust her dress, takes care of his shirt's buttons and his tie, then cups his face in her hands. "I'll treasure it," she seals her promise with a quick peck on the corner of his lips. Tywin Lannister nods.

"Until Saturday, then."

"Until Saturday". Because she  _can_ manage two more days, after all - or so she hopes.


	12. Chapter 12

"Oh, gods, it's  _so romantic_!"

"Hush, Marg! Remember when I said it was a  _damn secret_?"

Margaery Tyrell raises her cup still full of creamy cappuccino and smiles wickedly. "No Robb in here, darling. No Jon. No Starkish absurd, twisted, pathetic, masochism-driven ethics."

"I know, I know, but please, just don't show so much enthusiasm... Can we just keep a... A low profile?"

"Yeah, a low profile. You. With  _me_. You, talking  _to me_ about  _him_ \- a textbook case of keeping a low profile, indeed!" 

Sansa sighs, sensing her own defeat. "Oh, Marg, please..."

"Please? Please? AH!" The Tyrell girl laughs, "It's a secret date with-"

"MARGAERY TYRELL STOP IT RIGHT NOW OR I'LL HIT YOU WITH THIS BAGEL, I SWEAR."

"Ok, ok... What will you wear, then?" 

Sansa hesitates, fidgeting with the hem of her napkin. "You know, my sheath dress, the one with..." she gestures vaguely in her neckline zone and her friends understands - they bought the dress together: a simple sheath dress, black as the pitch of the night, a dress Margaery has always found too straight-laced despite the quite generous heart-shaped neckline. 

"But... Black?  _Long sleeves_? Really, Sansa, you  _should_ loosen up a little." 

"Not when black is his express request..." Sansa grins. And Margaery's cappuccino stops halfway. 

"He didn't!"

"Oh, he did..."

"Mhhh," Margaery then moans approvingly. "He  _is_ quite the man, isn't he. Not that I ever doubted, of course, but..."

"But?"

"But I'm amazed, and you know how not-impressionable I usually am! He  _does_ like you very much, uh?" 

Sansa shrugs, trying not to blush. Of course, she is accustomed to Margaery's not exactly subtle barrages of questioning, and after all, Margaery is the one she first talked to about this bizarre liaison, and still... Still, her first instinct - as silly as the whole idea can appear - is of  _protecting him_. Not herself, not her privacy.  _Him_. "Will you help me choosing accessories, then?" she tries to throw her friend off. 

"Of course!" Margaery chirps happily, and Sansa mentally breathes a sigh of relief. It's been easier than expected.

"Mind you - nothing too showy..." 

"We'll see, we'll see... After all, all we want is for him to find you ravishing - and believe me when I say, my word choice was  _anything_ but random."

"MARGAERY!"


	13. Chapter 13

Sansa Stark looks herself in her pocket mirror, trying to persuade herself not to run to the 37th floor at the first opportunity. 

 _Tomorrow_ , she repeats like a mantra in her head.  _Tomorrow_. 

Yes, tomorrow - but 'tomorrow' is more precisely 'tomorrow night', and she's starting to believe she won't last for the next thirty-two hours without getting mad. 

She has no idea about how on earth can she missing him so. They've been apart for  _ten days_ \- worst days of her life, probably, but still - and now, out of the blue, she's not able to resist for forty-eight hours and she's struggling, yet?  _Gods, what a mess I am_. 

She puts back the mirror, taps her fingertips over the polished surface of her desk. Picks up her phone. Puts it down. 

 _Get a grip, Sansa_ , she repeats to herself for the millionth time. 

 _Oh, fuck off_ , she answers herself while picking up the phone again. 

-  _Oh, Abigail, Abigail! I have such a desire to knock heads together!_

It's a long shot, of course. It's far from compulsory, for a man like Tywin, to remember something as trivial as a line from a musical - even if they watched it together, snuggled on her sofa, two nights before the Opera Accident. So she waits, readying herself for the moment he'll reply asking if she's actually gone mad. 

And minutes pass. So does half an hour. And hundreds of apocalyptic scenarios through her mind. 

"Sansa?"

"WHAT", she bursts. Jon looks back at her with his best quizzical expression. 

"I just wanted to...ask..." he starts carefully, and Sansa relaxes a bit. Even manages a smile. "Could you send me your report again? I was sure I saved it, but I can't find it anywhere..." 

"Give me a minute," she nods, then starts typing on her keyboard. "Done."

"Sorry."

"No problem, as you see." 

"Sansa..."

"Yes?"

"How are you?" She rolls her eyes, quite annoyed.

"Wonderfully, of course." Jon clenches his jaw, at unease.

"You know that Robb means well, don't you?"

A soft buzz catches Sansa's attention, and for a moment the message's preview flashes on her display. "Yes, of course," she curtly replies to her brother, in a voice so full of sarcasm he should definitely start worrying not to drown in it. 

"Sansa..."

"Please, Jon. I have work to finish before lunch. We'll talk about it another time, mh?"

With her heart in her throat, Sansa waits for her brother to leave and mentally counts the steps to his office. Only when she's positive it's safe enough for her to look at her messages, she unlocks her phone. 

-  _Then why in heaven's name do you stay there?_


	14. Chapter 14

Her fingers tremble so much, she's not even sure she'll be able to reply without letting her smartphone drop. She inhales deeply and slowly, trying to stay calm. He remembered! She could burst in tears of joy, as silly as it can seem. 

He remembered and he replied with the right line, but there's still the fact - it's a  _definitely ambiguous line_ , given their situation. And Sansa, who would have called herself lucky just for him recognizing the quote, finds herself in the sort of paralyzing panic only uncertainty can produce. Was he just quoting _1776_? Did he mean something more? Sansa honestly has no idea. 

So, in the end, she summons every ounce of courage she has left - very little, she finds out - and texts him back. 

\- _Are you just showing off your knowledge, Mr. Lannister, or is this a proposal?_

Twelve floors above her, Tywin Lannister allows himself a satisfied grin.

-  _It's your call, Ms. Stark..._


	15. Chapter 15

Another text is sent, then, but to a different number. A very different number, and a very essential text.

\- _Need an alibi._

-  _Aye, aye, captain! But only if it's for a T-mergency..._

Sansa rolls her eyes, unable to suppress a laugh. 

-  _Sort of ;)_

_\- I'll tell everyone we're having lunch together, then! In half an hour is ok?_

_\- Purrrrrrfect_

_\- ...Ah, what a *feline* reply..._

Her door opens immediately after a quick knock and she almost drops her phone. "Come for lunch?" 

Sansa slowly raises her gaze to Robb and shakes her head. "I'm going to see Margaery later, thank you..."

"Are you sure? We're all going to test that new Dornish place on Cobbler's Square..."

"Maybe next time?" She puts a question mark and a convincing smile in her words, for the last thing she needs right now is a suspecting Robb. 

"See you later, then." 

Sansa lets go a breath, leans for a long moment against the back of her chair. Despite Margaery's opinions about her family - and her older brothers, especially - she didn't like lying to them: Robb is worried for her, she knows he is, and all he has in mind is to protect her while their parents are in Winterfell; Jon is subtler in his worries, but even so, he has only her wellbeing at heart... Lying to them is something she definitely doesn't like, but curiously enough, she is totally unable to feel even the tiniest pang of guilt about it. They  _don't_ know how happy she is with Tywin, how loved and cherished she feels. And even if they knew, they would surely object it's fake or some sort of scheme... What Sansa knows, and her brother don't, is that  _it cannot_ be fake - Tywin could have had her whenever he liked, he could have taken advantage of his position, his status, his figure... even his  _age_ , for goodness' sake! He could have made a trophy out of her at any moment - and yet, he didn't. 

She pushes the button of his floor with anticipation, not sure at all about how will she manage to cross the entire office without drawing too much attention. Yes, it's lunchtime. Yes, there will be only a few people. Still...

The doors slide open and she doesn't need to figure how to sneak unnoticed anymore. Tywin's there, apparently absorbed by what he's reading on his smartphone, and looks up at her for the briefest moment. 

Then, he enters the elevator. "Rooftop, please," he grumbles, and Sansa obeys almost without realizing what she's doing. 

Doors slide close again. The smartphone slips in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He turns to her and winks. 

And finds himself with his arms full of Sansa Stark.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

"To what do I owe such...enthusiasm?" Tywin asks, breaking the kiss after they both had taken their time. 

"You remembered," she says calmly, her thumbs caressing his cheekbones and her eyes full of adoration. 

"What? _1776_? It was an easy cue. Despite the fact I don't exactly feel as an  _Abigail -_  if you want the truth."

"Well, you don't look like an Abigail, either," she chuckles. The elevator dings and opens on a small, poorly lit stoop and Tywin makes way to the heavy door leading on the rooftop. The light of the sunny day is so intense, in contrast, she blinks.

"It's a bit... _basic_ , but at least no-one will see you in my disgraceful company." 

Sansa looks around - it's the typical rooftop for buildings like that, a desolate plain made of concrete and riddled with big fans and chimneys and pigeons and dust. But it _is_ safe - and the view is literally breath-taking. You can see all the way to the sea, and beyond - it's a wonderful day and Sansa realizes she can even recognize Sharp Point, on the other side of Blackwater Bay.

"I can't say I like it, but I sort of like it," she squeezes his hand, "and surely it has its perks..."

Tywin cocks an eyebrow, amused. "Such as?"

Sansa tugs at his hand, drawing him nearer - she guides him to encircle her waist, and loosens her grip on his wrist only when both his hands are resting against the small of her back.

"Let me think..." She lets their bodies adhere to one another, her arms around his middle and her face buried against her neck. Sometimes she finds herself thinking she'd like to be shorter, not almost as tall as him, but - well - it's a bit too late for that, and she has to settle for things the way they are. Her fingers slip under his jacket, closing on the fine cotton of his shirt. "For example, I can breath you in without anyone to complain," she smiles against his skin. 

"Good point," he approves.

"Your turn."

"Well..." He starts tracing her spine with his fingers, slowly and lightly. "I can..." He pulls back a bit, staring at her with a look so intense she thinks she's about to melt. "... I can fully appreciate the way this blouse suits you." Transfixed, Sansa looks at his hands descend to her pussy-bow, caressing her neck - at how he twirls one end around his fingers and gently pulls it, loosening the perfect knot. 

Sansa breaths deeply, in the - futile - effort to regain control over her emotions. "My, my, what a mischievous man you are, Mr. Lannister," she playfully scolds him, but his mouth is on her throat, warm and demanding, and she loses track of her own thoughts. Her left hand runs to the back of his head, rubbing his scalp. "Tywin," she exhales, a bundle of nerves and sensations. She could surrender to him here and now, she is frightfully aware of that - and truth to be told, part of her cannot help but  _wish_ he were that kind of man. 

But he is not. He inhales her perfume and resumes his original height, bridging the new gap between them by leaning his forehead against hers. "You'll be my doom, Sansa Stark."

"As in  _downfall_ or as in  _fate_?" she somehow manages to ask. He chuckles. 

"This, I'm afraid, it's not for me to answer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS SHIP will be my death, I know that for sure! ;) 
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting, you are the best! xx


	17. Chapter 17

"Soooo, how did  _our lunch_ go, yesterday?" Margaery is sitting cross-legged on Sansa's bed - something she had been doing since they were teenagers and apparently had no intention to change. Sansa looks up in the mirror, finding her nosy expression. 

"Quite well," she chirps. "Quite well, indeed... Would you mind help me with this damn zip, now?"

Margaery stands and zips up her friend's black dress, all the time wearing one of her top quality raised eyebrow. "Should I stay here, waiting for you to return? Just in case you need an unzipping hand..." 

Sansa blushes, as only Sansa Stark can blush. "Oh, Marg, shut up," she wails. "You make it sound like my only thought for tonight is taking Tywin to bed."

"Isn't it so?"

"NO!"

Margaery Tyrell gives her friend's answer the due consideration, then shakes her head. "As I said before, you should work on your priorities, Sansa Stark. The man is  _hot_ , for the Sevens' sake! He practically worships you. You are crushing on him for  _months_. I don't see why you shouldn't do everything it takes to...appropriately celebrate your not-so-unexpected reunion!" 

"I'm not saying I  _won't_ do anything, just... It's not what tonight is about, ok? First of all, I  _like_ spending time with him."

"Now  _this_ I know for certain," Margaery mocks her, but Sansa pretends she didn't hear her. 

"What I mean is - I won't throw myself at him, ok? We're...  _different_. I don't want him to think I am just some girl ruled by her hormones - or worse." 

 Margaery shrugs. From her point of view, Sansa deserves the better - she has struggled her entire life with her being the middle child, the good one, the obedient one, the _perfect_ one... And it's time for her to be happy, not just in general, but  _happy on her conditions._ Tywin Lannister is what - well, who - is making her _this_ happy, probably for the first time in her life, and Margaery Tyrell's opinion is that she simply has to catch this happiness and enjoy it, and to hell with everything else. Since she started this bizarre courting dance with Tywin Lannister, her friend can testify it in front of whatever jury, Sansa is more serene, more confident: she is  _radiant_ , a quality Margaery was quite sure she's never actually seen in her. 

"Act however you like, but promise me you'll go for it, Sansa. Grasp this chance for being who you want to be."

Sansa finishes to clip an earring, adjusts the long string of pearls around her neck. "Who are you, wise creature? Where's my loud, nosy, flamboyant friend?" 

Margaery's laugh fills the room. "She's just here, but hey, you can't blame me for using a bit more tactful phrasing, for once! I was just trying to spare you another furious blushing session!" Sansa shakes her head at her incorrigible friend. "Ah, and by the way - you look absolutely stunning. I can predict your night is going to be..."

"Marg..."

"...Wonderful! I was about to say  _wonderful_!"


	18. Chapter 18

Sat in the back of his luxury car while his chauffeur drives him to the Opera House, Tywin grins knowingly when his phone buzzes briefly in his inside pocket.

_\- ...on my way...!_

Texting to him from a taxi is just the kind of thing Sansa likes to do, and he has to admit, he is warming to it, too. It keeps attention up, it builds expectations - but the Seven know, he  _doesn't need_ any more expectations for this evening. The mere idea of her, getting ready  _for him_ , wearing something he asked for, has haunted his whole afternoon, yet, and everything he needs, now, is just a quiet, elegant evening with her at his side. Everything else, it's just something he's determined to  _let happen_ : what will be, will be, yes, and he won't complain - but he won't force things, either. It would be so trivial, so predictable. And he's not a predictable man, still less a trivial one. 

-  _Very good, indeed_. 

Brief, vague. He knows she'll take the bait. It's intrinsic in their play. 

\- _I plan to sit in my seat in the stalls, first. Just in case._

_\- ...clever girl._

_\- Then when the lights go out, I'll receive a call I cannot miss..._

_\- Ah, that's *my* clever girl..._

Sansa reads and rereads, smiling radiantly to herself. The weight of that possessive does wonders to her heart, makes her pulse sing in her ears.  _My_. She can almost sense the taste of it on her lips.  _My_. And he emphasized it.  _My_. From a man as stern and distant and nonaffective as only Tywin Lannister can be.  _My._ What the hell can you reply, to something like that? 

Suddenly, Sansa's inner smile grows even wider, so wide that it leaks outside and affects her lips. 

\- " ' _Til then, 'til then, I am - as I ever was, and ever shall be - yours, yours, yours..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, it's nothing more than an appetizer... But at least, it shows what's behind this fic's title! (once again, a quote from '1776')
> 
> I am speechless, though, for your kindness in supporting this little work of mine... It's very important to me, and I thank you all, each and every one of you. THANK YOU!!! xx


	19. Chapter 19

Tywin Lannisters rests a hand on the velvet surface of the balcony, apparently uninterested in what is going on in the majestic space surrounding him.

He has made arrangements even before arriving - dutiful employees of the Opera House had draped the curtains of his box, so that nobody from the rest of the theatre can see he's not alone; exceeding chairs have been removed, too, and replaced by a discrete side table with some refreshments, so that neither Tywin nor his guest will have to leave the box and mix themselves with other people at the intervals... He has to admit, he's quite pleased with both himself and the results of his planning. 

So now he's sitting in his armchair, casting long, circular looks over the auditorium and taking his time in memorize every detail - small movements and apparent nonchalance are feline qualities he particularly appreciates and cultivates, and in those occasions where they prove themselves useful he appreciates them even more. Occasions like the present one, with Sansa crossing the threshold and heading elegantly to her seat in the stalls. 

He's suddenly relieved that she decided on this particular course of action - taking her seat, then leaving with an excuse - because he's quite prone to believe his heart would have irreparably betrayed him if she had shown up in their box without notice. Even in the distance, she truly is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen: Tywin knows perfectly well all the reasons why he doesn't deserve such perfection, he knows how absurd this whole thing is, he knows everything - he knows it  _rationally_ , though, and rationality has a very little place in this matter. 

 _Yours, yours, yours_.

Tywin Lannister smiles inwardly and shakes his head. How on earth can she declare herself as  _his_? Doesn't she see who he is? Arrogant and imposing and cold-blooded and...  _Old_ , for goodness' sake. He's old. There's been even a time - brief, and badly ended - when she had dated  _his grandson_! How can she possibly find him attractive, now? Him, with his load of years and remorses and ghosts and...

Sansa chooses that instant to discretely raise her head towards the boxes - towards  _him_. It's just a moment and she, too, like him, pretends her looking around is nothing more than a pastime, but somewhere halfway between stalls and boxes their gazes meet and lock. Every uncertainty fades into nothing as her words echo once again in his mind. 

 _Yours, yours, yours_. 


	20. Chapter 20

When for the third time the lights dim, Sansa worriedly grabs her purse and fishes her smartphone. "Damn!" she hisses, as she leaves her seat in a rush. The woman at her right sighs sadly to her husband.

"Poor dear. I'm afraid that was bad news..." 

Outside the auditorium, Sansa checks herself in one of the big, antique mirrors and starts climbing the deserted stairs with slow determination. The slow determination she walks the corridor, too, reading the numbers outside the boxes one by one. 

Then, she knocks softly and doesn't wait for an answer to enter.

And unexpectedly - or not at all - she finds herself into Tywin Lannister's arms as Tywin Lannister's mouth claims hers. 

"Hello, you," she sighs contently, as the kiss breaks and they stand still, hands cupping each other's face and foreheads touching. 

"Welcome," he growls, fighting the urge to start kissing her again. The sudden silence signals that the show's about to begin, though, and if he is not at least partly visible behind the box's balcony surely someone will guess something's amiss... So he guides her to her chair, bows deeply in order to tease the side of her neck with a brief kiss, then sits at her side, from where - at best - only a fraction of his profile will be recognizable. 

The great silence swallows everything for a moment. The music explodes. 

Tywin turns slightly towards Sansa - her eyes shining, her expression all wrapped up in the scene... Her focus leaves the stage for a moment, moving on him. She smiles, and Tywin could swear he's never been the recipient of such sweetness in his entire life. Her hand finds his in the half-light, fingers intertwine on their own volition - her head reclines over his shoulder as she sighs. 

"Thank you, darling." 


	21. Chapter 21

"Thank you, darling."

Sansa hears the words leaving her lips and freezes, sudden uncertainty and panic hitting her with the force of a wave during a storm. Has she  _really_ just called him 'darling'? She blushes in the darkness, starts to shift uncomfortably on her chair, worried she has somehow overstepped. His hand doesn't let her go, though, on the contrary - he gently draws her nearer, ducks his head towards hers. 

"No. Thank  _you_ ," he whispers. He feels her body relax again, leaning back against his right arm. 

The first-act curtain finds them still in the same position, serene and content, and she blinks when the lights get back on. "Something to drink?" Tywin offers, as their hands let gently go of each other. 

"Ah, door service," she smiles. "You're spoiling me, you know?" 

"You call it  _spoiling you_ , I call it  _taking a simple precaution_. I'm not eager to risk ruining another opera night for you, after the last time." 

In the dark corner provided by the box's draped curtain, Sansa takes both of glasses from his hands and puts them down back on the side table. "What a forward-looking man," she says, her voice sultry and mellow as she closes her fingers around his wrists to guide them around her waist. She backs toward the partition wall, pulling him with her via his arms encircling her. Her hands slid under the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, affectionately massaging his chest and shoulders through the fabric. "Would you kiss me, please?" she asks in a hiss. 

She knows someone could hear them, from the next box. She knows that - as unlikely as it is, thanks to his precautions - the risk to be seen still exists. She just  _can't_ _help_ but feel him near. They've been holding hands until a moment before, yes, and still... Still, she needs to be close to him. She needs to be  _held_ in his arms, cuddled and cherished as only he can make her feel. She needs his cologne to fill her nostrils and cloud her senses. 

She needs him to know how desperately she needs  _him_. 

"You never cease to amaze me," Tywin murmurs against the soft skin of her neck. His hands are open on her back, spreading warmth and caressing her like the precious thing she too often forgets she is. Her fingers land on the back of his head, guiding him to stay the way he is and massaging his scalp. 

"It's you who inspire me," she sighs, and it sounds damn serious, not the coquettish comment she had in mind.

"I dare to say, it works both ways," he chuckles as the lights dim down again. 

The second act is about to begin. 


	22. Chapter 22

Slowly, while on the stage the vile Scarpia forces Tosca into trading her favors in exchange for her lover's life, Sansa leans in more purposefully against Tywin's side - she's so taken by Tosca's aria, _Vissi d'arte_ , so enraptured, that her hand comes softly to rest on his thigh, an affectionate gesture which strikes both of them for being, despite what anyone could think of it,  _not_ of a sexual nature: it's something entirely different, something chaste, something  _warm..._ Something natural and familiar, who speaks about closeness more than sensuality. 

They're both happy there's no true interval between act two and three: although their mutual plannings to minimize the risks inherent in this little date, Sansa seems unable to completely relax, for every time she try and figure how they will manage to leave the theatre without being spotted something heavy starts troubling her breath, distracting her from the music. From her point of view, not being at least worried is nearly impossible. 

 _E lucevan le stelle_ brings her on the brink of tears; she doesn't understand every word, but the music... The music, so heartbreaking and desperate, just cut through her soul and she sobs quietly, overwhelmed by her own emotions - Tywin's hand grips hers more intensely as his thumb traces vague circles on her skin and he nodded almost imperceptibly. He knows, she realizes. He knows how deeply this music moves her, and he doesn't find her silly for it... 

So she closes her eyes, inhaling his scent until her lungs are completely filled. He  _understands her_. And this is the most precious gift he could ever give her. 

"We won't wait for the applause to end, will we?" she asks softly. 

"Surely leaving earlier would make things easier, but you decide. It's your night, not mine." 

Sansa raises her head in order to better look at him. " _Ours_ ," she corrects him. 

Tywin stands and offers her his hand with a proud grin. "Ours," he agrees.


	23. Chapter 23

By the time Sansa finally hears the engine start and feels the car move, she can't suppress a sigh anymore. They made it! 

No unfortunate incidents, no hiccups - just their private, maybe a little secluded, relaxing evening together: not in plain sight, yes, but Sansa honestly couldn't care less about it. There will be time for cause raised eyebrows and saucy talks... This night, however, was meant to be theirs, and theirs it was - well, it still is, given that they're both sitting in his car's backseat as his chauffeur drives them to  _his_ home. 

The route passes in something like a confused blur - all she can keep her mind focused on is him, his kisses - or it's just that one kiss, long and comfortable, during for the whole time? - and the way her body reacts to him, how it seems to incessantly swing between chills and hot waves. When the car slows down, though, a sudden, bad feeling starts tugging at the base of her neck. She recognizes he must feel it, too, but before they could be able to fully process it the partition glass slides open and the worried voice of Tywin's driver speaks carefully.

"Sir...?" 

Tywin reacts as only Tywin Lannister can, fully operational in the blink of an eye. "What's wrong?" 

The man nods towards something up ahead, and Sansa realizes they're now proceeding towards the house very slowly. There's a car, in front of Tywin's house. A car they all know all too well - as all too well they know the figure presently engaged in what appears to be a heated discussion with the man at the door. 

"Damned that little unstable brat," Tywin mutters under his breath. He sees the alarm in Sansa's eyes and his decision is quickly taken. He'll get rid of his grandson before he could even think there's someone else on his car. And he'll make sure to sign a significant check to his butler, too, as a bonus for not letting Joffrey into his house. "Don't worry," he reassures Sansa, holding her hand and kissing the palm. "Drive me to the front door, and lock the doors as soon as mine's closed," he instructs his driver.

Sansa's grip on his hand doesn't loosen. "Don't worry," he repeats, kissing her foreheads. "It will take just a minute."

Reluctantly, Sansa lets go of his hand. She knows first-hand that Joffrey's tantrums are never a matter of minutes. And if he is pissed - as it seems the case, given his yelling at the mansion's butler - they can go terribly worse, and escalate terribly quickly. As she - along plenty of people in King's Landing - knows, Tywin is the only one able to control his spoiled grandson, but that instruction about locking the car has scared her. To her bones. 

"It will be over in a moment," the driver tries to reassure her through the partition glass. "I'm afraid it's not the first time that..." 

The commotion outside takes them both by surprise: she cannot understand the words Jeoffrey's yelling at his grandfather, but she turns just in time to see the boy throwing himself against Tywin. The Old Lion pushes him back with apparently no effort at all, but when Jeoffrey tries again, well - Tywin's slap hits him fully in the face, so hard that the young man retreats wobbling to his car, slams the door and leaves in a rain of gravel and a screeching of tires.

Tywin goes back to his car in order to help Sansa out. "See?" he smirks, "I told you it would have taken just a minute." 

Sansa takes his outstretched hand end gets out of the car, burying herself against his chest. As soon as she raises her face to his, however, she freezes in horror. 

"He cut you!" 


	24. Chapter 24

 

"He cut you!"

Tywin brings his fingers to his jaw, softly palpating the achy flesh beneath, then in front of his eyes. There's actually blood. "This?" he asks her, chuckling. "It's just a scratch... And I'm afraid it serves me right, for not foreseeing it coming. I should have known-"

"A scratch it may be, but your shirt's collar is already laced with blood," Sansa snaps back. She's in the middle of an emotional turmoil as she never experienced before, torn between the relief of seeing he's well and the annoyance in front of his determination in diminishing what happened. On his part, seeing her in this uncommonly ill-temperate state Tywin finds himself deeply touched and, truth to be told, quite amazed - how is it possible that she cares for him so much? 

He guides her inside, shushing with a wave of his hand whatever fusses his butler was about to make. "We'll discuss it tomorrow," he dismisses the man. "No need to think about it twice." Sansa discretely brushes his arm. "Ah, yes. Good work, Lefford."

The man watches, flabbergasted, as both his master and his guest get past him, headed upstairs like it's the most normal things to do. And somehow - he realizes - it is. 

It's Sansa's turn to fuss around Tywin's cut - which definitely is  _not_ , in her opinion, a scratch - as she climbs the stairs at his side. It's not just the blood, it's not just the aggression: it's first and foremost  _Joffrey_. Seeing Joffrey in such a state scared her, and scared her terribly - if he's up to attack his grandfather, then he's totally out of control, and if he's out of control, he could be a danger to anyone... 

"I'd ask you whether you have something to clean and mend that cu- _scratch_ , but I know for certain you do," she says, trying to sound reasonable. 

"In my bathroom, yes - as long as you don't think I'm just trying to lure you into my bedroom..." Tywin smirks and Sansa feels her whole inside melt in delight. But she, too, is good at this game.

"Oh, no, I'm perfectly aware it is something  _neither of us_ has given the merest thought!" 

"Very well. Then follow me, miss Stark, I'll show you the medicine cabinet..."

"Ah,  _how romantic_!"

"It is, isn't it?"

"Tywin," she turns on her heels, head inclined sideways and  _that_ soft smile on her lips, "you know you just managed to make the words 'medicine cabinet' sound almost  _erotic_ , in that voice, don't you?" 

"That, my dear," he nods, perfectly serious, "was exactly my point."


	25. Chapter 25

"Mhhh..." Sansa mumbles to herself as she inspects Tywin's jaw after cleaning the cut. "It's quite deep, you know."

"I wouldn't have guessed, judging by that." He indicates his shirt, laying untidily in the sink. The blood stain is bigger than he anticipated, but after all, he was  _Tywin Lannister_ , and Tywin Lannister never shows any weakness. 

"I wish to point out that you were the one insisting it was a scratch," she chirps, mockingly, as she turns to rummage again into the cabinet. Sat on the edge of the bathtub, Tywin ducks his head sideways as he watches her. She's beautiful, for heavens' sake. She's elegant and perfect and everything a man could desire to find in a woman - yet, she's here. In his own house, in his own bathroom, cold-bloodedly acting like his personal nurse as if it's perfectly logical. He's far more than fascinated. He's captured. "Ah-ah! Here you are," he hears her mutter as her rummaging finally stops. She turns triumphantly, brandishing a pack of steri-strips. 

"Really?" he mocks her, standing up to study himself in the mirror. "Isn't it a little extreme?"

"You see this?" she asks him, then, leaning against his shoulder and pointing at his neck. "This is called  _blood_ , and it's coming from this, that's called  _a deep cut_. As I see it, you are left with three options: you can let me close it with these, you can let it be the way it is and later go around bragging about your pirate-like scar, or..."

" _Or_ , Miss Stark?"

" _Or_ , I can always  _sew you up_ like a sock, which - I must admit - could, in fact, bring us to the same outcome." 

Feigning horror, Tywin takes the package from the shelf she's left it over, and hands it to her. "Steri-strips it is, then... After all, I can always grow a beard..." 

Sansa's hands stop in mid-gesture. "Yes, please," she sighs, but Tywin's intrigued expression prevents her to press further. Two strips later, as her job is done as she's tidying up the mess, Tywin inspects himself in the mirror once again, appreciating her good work and realizing with annoyance how the skin is getting bluer by the minute. 

"The fucking idiot and his fucking habit to wear rings," he hisses, and sees Sansa immediately tense in the reflection. He reaches for her. "Sansa, dear... I told you. There is no reason to be worried."

"I'm not worried." She's pale, now, and it's not the usual porcelain color of her skin. It's actual  _paleness_ , and it's Tywin's turn to worry. "I'm scared."

"Do not. It was just about money - I axed his incomes, a few days ago, so I suppose such a reaction was somehow predictable, knowing him."

"But he just hurt you, and... And..." Tywin's hands go quickly to her hips, slide on her back to keep her close and - what she clearly needs most -  _safe_. 

"What the seven hells did he do to you?" he asks in a murmur, kissing her hair.

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm late!!! :( Just had a long and quite tough day... But here we are, finally!  
> Hope you'll like it!   
> Thx! xx

Sansa sighs heavily against his shoulder, holding him as if her life depends on it. 

"Sansa?"

"There's no need to talk about it. It's over - that's all that matter." 

Tywin keeps her close to his chest, eyes closed and jaw tensed, inhaling deeply as to prevent himself from going and beat his grandson in a pulp. Instead of giving in to the violent instincts, though, he focuses on Sansa, on the trust she's abandoned herself into his embrace with. He moves slightly, kisses her temple - and Sansa bursts into tears. 

Taking aback - and as his fury against Joffrey grows exponentially - the Old Lion cups her cheeks, gently guiding her to look into his eyes. "Tell me," he pushes with as much kindness as he can, "please." Sansa's eyes, so brilliant because of her tears, seem able to rip open his chest and bring his heart so close to her she could touch it. "Did he...  _hurt_ you?" he forces himself to ask. And all the Seven won't be able to keep Joffrey safe from his revenge, should the answer be  _yes_.

"Only once," she whispers, and hides once again into his arms. "That's why I left him." She feels his muscles tense around her, kisses his chest affectionately. "It was just a..."

"No, not 'just', whatever it was."

"He slapped me. Hard. The whap broke my lip. The next day, I left him. But the bruise remained here for days, and..."

"You should have reported him to the police."

Sansa snorts, sarcastically. "Uncle Robert was the mayor, at the time. You can figure out how it would have ended..." Tywin sighs, sadly aware she is right. 

"You were saying, 'and'...? There's something else?"

Sansa nods meekly, troubling her lower lip before speak. "He didn't take it well. He started following me,  _stalking_ me - wherever I went, he was there, too. Every time. Always looking at me with that disturbing smile... Luckily enough, after a few weeks, he stopped. I don't know why, and honestly, I don't care, either, but he stopped." 

"I cannot say how sorry I am, Sansa." Sansa raises her head, looks him straight into his eyes. And smiles. 

"Don't be. You're not him. And I am with  _you_ , and I never felt so happy in my life..." She kisses him briefly on the lips, nothing more than a quick peck, still bearing so much gratitude and promises. "I don't want to talk of him, he doesn't deserve our breath." This time her kiss lasts a bit longer, gets a bit warmer. "Now, Mr. Lannister: can you explain  how is it, that two times I came into your home, and two times we end up tending to each other's injuries?" 

She knows that 'injuries' is a tad extreme: when he first brought her here, after the undignified and embarrassing fall outside the airport while trying to catch a taxi he had accidentally witnessed, it had been in order to clean and dress up her skinned knees... Nothing else than a kind invitation to meet again in the following days for a perfectly decent coffee had come from that visit - or, at least, not immediately.

Tywin takes her face between his hands, brushing away the traces of her tears with his thumbs.

"Well, now, Miss Stark, what a question to ask... That's because we're warriors," he states solemnly, before kissing her.


	27. Chapter 27

"That's because we're warriors," he said, and a warrior he seems, now, scooping her in his arms with apparently no effort and bringing her back to his bedroom. Sansa smiles against his lips as her hands travel from his neck to biceps and back - and when he puts her down, and her feet are once again solidly on the ground, she shoots him an amused look which he fears will be the death of him. 

"What is it?" he can't help but ask, as her silent observation goes on.

"I was merely appreciating the fact that I'm seeing you disheveled," she admits, and there's the promise of a laugh in her voice. Tywin looks down at himself - yes,  _disheveled_ is the right word. In his singlet, his suspenders down... He could easily state that it's been  _years_ since the last time someone saw him like this. 

"Well, then. Time for a confession: despite what they say, I am nothing but a man. Same as everyone else." 

"Oh, no," she says, taking a step forward. And another, until they are literally toe-to-toe. "I could travel the world, not just Westeros, looking for a man like you, and believe me - I won't find another." 

"I can't say whether you mean it as a good thing or not," he teases her. Sansa takes his right hand into hers and brings it to her lips, kissing the knuckles. 

"Help me out of this dress and I will show you." 

Tywin's gaze fixes on her, trying to spot any sign of uncertainty. He has to be sure, for both her good and his own; he has to be sure before doing something irreversible - he has to be sure she won't regret it. "Are you certain, Sansa? It's been an emotional night, you mustn't feel obligated, I'd understand if..." 

And out of a sudden, there's fire.  _She's_ fire. The soft, sweet look in her eyes is gone, replaced by hurt and a sort of sad anger which looks far more dangerous than anger itself. "You can just say it, you know. It's easy.  _Sansa, I don't find you attractive enough_. Just say the damn words and put an end to this charade once and for all. Say it. Put us out of our miseries." 

For the first time in his whole life, Tywin Lannister doesn't know what to say. His mind blacks out. He blankly looks at her, at her pressed lips and crossed arms. And whereas his mind has gone on strike, his body is still wise enough to take control. His mouth crashes into hers, hot and demanding, and his hands sneak endlessly all over her body - the warlike look in her eyes definitely gone, Sansa offers her throat for him to kiss and worship, which he dutifully does, driven by the mysterious power of her scent. 

"Don't dare to accuse me not to find you attractive enough  _ever_   _again_ , Sansa. You see what you do to me," he pants against her shoulder, apologetic for losing control like that. 

Sansa pushes him gently to sit onto his bed and cups his face. "Show me," she whispers, and this time she sees in his eyes he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry!   
> I didn't plan on such a *cruel* cliffhanger, but my weekends are usually worse than the rest of the week, and this part was already written... So I chose the easy option, I'm afraid.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY!!!   
> I just hope this chapter will help me make amend for my tardiness!   
> xx

By the time Tywin's hands finish unzipping her dress, Sansa's not even sure about who she is. As he gently pushes it down her arms and let it pool at her feet, she's quite certain she's going to melt in a puddle. 

It's nothing special, it's nothing out of the ordinary, and still... Still, he seems able to make everything  _different_ \- every gesture, every touch, they all seem to burn her skin and ignite her soul with an unknown fire. What stuns her, and shocks her, is that it's not a roaring fire: there's nothing violent or disruptive in its flame, but rather the unrelenting, persistent burning of well-fanned embers. 

Taking his time, and bringing even the littlest detail to a higher level, Tywin Lannister first finishes divesting her, then eases her on the firm mattress of his bed, all the way never interrupting the rain of kisses he's worshiping her body with. 

Sansa struggles with herself in the desperate attempt not to give in and close her eyes in bliss - she wants, she  _needs_ , to see him, not only feel him, for it would be all too easy to persuade herself this is nothing more than another dream... She clings to his shoulders, drawing him to her, to her mouth, into her welcoming arms - and he obliges her more than happily, rejoicing in the sensation of skin to skin, muscle to muscle, mixed breaths and scents. 

For the briefest moment, when her hands move down his back and reach for his belt, he frets he won't able to last a minute, so deep is his desire for her. "Take them off," she pants against his lips as tugs at his trousers, but as soon as Tywin moves to comply, and she finds herself undressed and alone in his bed, she almost regrets her request - that is, until she finally, and for the first time, sees him, towering naked over her. 

Once again, and this time for the best reason she can think of, her legs spread on their own volition. Tywin smirks at this, and as soon as he's once again settled there he lowers himself to kiss her lips, her jaw, descending between her breasts in a warm and moist trail until he closes his mouth around a nipple, torturing it - and  _her_ \- with the quite unexpected talents of his tongue. 

Sansa grinds her hips against him in response, overwhelmed by both the feeling of his mouth on her and the wetness pooling between her legs; her senses are so responsive, every perception of her body seems intensified, every desire grown through the roof, her own lust for him even more pressing and demanding. That's why she digs her fingertips into his loins, urging him to take things on the next level: something Tywin welcomes with the deepest satisfaction, although being still not completely sure of her wishes. 

He raises his head, then, and looks for her eyes - they're so clouded and darkened there could be  _very little_ doubt indeed, but nevertheless, he waits for her permission. Sansa's right hand lands on his cheek as her lips crack a smile. "Yours, yours, yours," she prompts him in a whisper. A blink later, he's inside her, and he feels home for the first time in decades.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU. SIMPLY. ARE. THE. BEST!   
> I thank you from the bottom of my heart, for your patience with me, for the time you spend reading and reviewing, for your benevolence, that I don't deserve. Thank you, thank you, thank you!!! xx

"You were right." Sansa's voice sounds hoarse when she finally speaks, and Tywin just guesses it's somewhat predictable, given their state of spent satisfaction.

"Mh?" he asks, monosyllabic as only a man of few words as he is can manage to be. Sansa turns her face to him, presses a kiss against his shoulder. 

"This," she says, simply. "Us, here. You were right."

"I am never wrong," he articulates. There's amusement in his voice, a light state of mind bordering on playfulness, and he is positive he doesn't remember the last time he was in such a mood. 

"You arrogant know-it-all," she teases him, snuggling closer as his arm encircles her waist and his hand lays possessively on her hips. 

"That's me," Tywin chuckles. Sansa knows in that precise moment that this will be her favorite sound for the years to come. Her hand comes resting on his chest, gently tracing lines on his skin with her fingertips.

"Still, you were right. It was worth the wait," she smiles, looking at him straight in the eyes. He recognizes the smirk he so desperately likes. " _Outrageously_ worth." 

 


	30. Chapter 30

Sansa lazily opens her eyes and a familiar thought kicks immediately in - she  _hates_ Sundays. She hates hollow inactivity, she hates having to hang out without a purpose, she hates the fact there's  _always_ someone ready to drag her out of her apartment instead of letting her be the quiet, nerdy introvert she so often craves to be in her free time. So she wakes up, and thinks she hates Sundays. 

Then, as she stretches between the sheets, her mind starts to focus more and more. And something entirely different kicks in - she's not in her apartment. She's not in her bed. She's not alone. 

So she rolls on her back until she lays on her stomach, propped on her elbows, smiling to herself as Tywin Lannister's severe profile - no, sleep doesn't do a thing to sweeten his sharp features - becomes the main focus of her attention. As she smiles, wondering whether is she supposed to wake him up or not, he lets out a low grumble and rolls to his side, leaving her with a quite unique view of his muscular back. After all, they're both too accustomed to sleeping alone to actually  _consider_ the idea of waking up in each other's arms - and Sansa is far too practical, far too no-nonsense, to be upset about the lack of some silly detail from a cheap romantic movie. She got the actual thing, of that she's sure, and she has no need for idyllic, dreamy misrepresentation.

She's mesmerized by his muscles, though - how perfectly fit they are, how outlined they are under his skin even when he's resting. She cannot help and traces his backbone with her hand, from the nape of his neck to the only area of his body that's not  _perfect_ \- an old, long healed burn scar, just a few inches above his right hip. It surely had to hurt  _a lot_ , and for a long time, when it was recent... 

"Not the most attractive part of me, I agree," he mumbles amusedly, and when she retreats her hand the same instant he openly chuckles. "Gods, Sansa, don't make that face! It's hardly a capital sin, you know - I mean, touching me."

Sansa smacks her lips as her worried expression gets into a stern one. " _Well_ ," she stresses the word, "it's you who makes a point of looking like a sort of profane demi-god. And there's literally  _a lot_ of cultures where touching the divine is actually a capital sin. For your infomation." 

"Mh," he considered, rolling her on her back and starting to kiss his way down her throat, "But no, I don't think I am  _that_ kind of deity. Quite the opposite, truth to be told." 

"Tywin Lannister, you are a  naughty demi-god indeed," she says, appreciatingly. Tywin stops, pulls back.

" _Demi_ -god? Who said anything about  _demi_ -?" 

 


	31. Chapter 31

"I usually hate Sundays, you know," Sansa says happily, wincing at him as she places another slice of chocolate cake into her plate. It's an impressing table for a breakfast, she has to admit, but - well - it's  _Tywin Lannister's breakfast table_ , so a certain display of opulence is somehow unsurprising, if not  _requested_... He raises an eyebrow, quizzically, and she continues, "But I am prone to admit, I could even change my mind, if  _this_ is your staff's idea of a Sunday breakfast!" 

Tywin laughs - not his usual, well-known, ambiguous grin, a true laugh that takes her by surprise - and shrugs. "Truth to be told, I'm afraid this is my staff's idea of  _this_ Sunday breakfast. I honestly can't recall the last time I saw strawberries without explicitly ask for them - let alone  _chocolate_..."

"Ah, so it's a mischievous staff you employed," she smiles back. "Where are they, by the way?" 

"I live alone, I do not need - nor like - having people around all the time, so - well - giving them Sundays as their day off seemed just... right? You know, for... Family, friends, that sort of things." The look in Sansa's eyes is of pure adoration, by now, and he sees she's about to say something good about him - something he's definitely not ready to hear. "So every Sunday the cook makes breakfast and lays the table, cooks something for lunch and dinner, and leaves, as others do. My butler stays in, but mostly he tends to minor issues and spends his day in his pantry. We barely see each other, unless something urgent requires to be taken care of."

"So are you telling me we're virtually  _home alone_?" she asks innocently, biting into a strawberry with no innocence at all. 

"That's exactly what I'm telling you, yes," Tywin nods, and leaves his chair to move behind hers - where he bows deeply, burying his mouth against the soft skin of her neck. "Perfect conditions for breakfast..." 

"We just  _had_ breakfast," she objects as she rises to face him and grant him a better angle.

"Not the kind of breakfast I have in mind," Tywin Lannister corrects her. A moment later, he deposits her on top of the counter. 

And she - quite happily - finds out  _she is his breakfast_.


	32. Chapter 32

Her legs trembling and her breath labored, Sansa presses her fingers against the back of Tywin's head, encouraging him to keep up the pace of his ministrations. She's never felt so brazen in her life, but her body is currently reduced to a mere bunch of over-stimulated nerves and all she can do is letting the waves hit her and wash her completely. 

Tywin, on his part, was never truly into this sort of...  _entertainment_ \- he considers it too intimate, too precious, to be wasted on just anybody. Giving pleasure to Sansa, though, is something his mind has been fantasizing on for ages, so that's only  _natural_ he's now so ready to indulge both her desires and his own. He gladly keeps licking at her, kissing every bit of her velvety and welcoming warmth - a quick series of rolls of his tongue across her most sensitive spot brings a deep, earthy moan to her lips and Tywin feels himself hardening almost painfully. He grunts his satisfaction at her sounds, kneads her thighs with vigor, eating her without control, driven only by her ragged breath and his lust. 

Her nails on his scalp draw his attention, though, and when he stops, and looks up at her face, all he can see is Sansa's flushed smile, her eyes now shining and darkened with desire. She mouths just one word, " _More_ ," and Tywin Lannister knows he's definitely lost. Not without a hint of malice, he turns away from her to clean his face from her juice, leaving her exposed to the subtle stimulation of fresh air - when he turns back, though, any disappointment she could have felt just disappears as soon as she eyes the state of his trousers. "Ah, Mr. Lannister," she teases him, biting at her lower lip, "I see you're bearing gifts..." 

His mouth crashes over hers, at this; hands roam possessively over every inch of her skin, hot breath causes goosebumps wherever it lands - but when it's her hands that finally get the better of his fly, and free him, and take an equally possessive grasp of his member, it's Tywin who lets a guttural sound leave his throat. And Sansa Stark, known in the world for being a good girl with a good head on her shoulders, spreads her legs even more - on a dining room counter, no less - to accommodate her lover, who doesn't make her beg for it and enters her in one movement, so wet that she is, and pours everything he feels for her in his thrusts - the strong, determinate, focused thrusts he claims her with for himself.


	33. Chapter 33

"I want Joffrey out of my way - even better, out of this city - as soon as possible. You understand it's not an assignment I can just trust anyone with, Kevan, so... Take care of it, mh? Discreetly and quickly?" 

Kevan Lannister shrugs imperceptibly. He knows there's no love lost between his brother and the spoiled brat Cersei's keeps defending and defending, but  _out of the city,_ no less? The stupid boy surely must have gone beyond, this time. Kevan's eyes linger for a moment on the violet bruise along his brother's jaw, on the thin line of a cut kept closed by steri-strips, and everything just...clicks. 

"That was this doing, then?" he asks, sincerely shocked at such folly. 

"I am ashamed to say, I underestimated him. He took me unaware and this is the  _embarrassing_ result, yes." 

Kevan frowns, at unease. Tywin, unaware of a potential threat? Since when? Surely he must be out for blood, though, if summoning him and tasking him with getting rid of that poor excuse for a grandson has been the first act of his Monday morning... "I'll take care of it," he nods, not wanting to dive deep into the idea of _Tywin_   _caught off-guard_. Despite his attempts to keep the thought at bay, though, something clicks again. And he hears his own voice speak before he could realize what is he saying. "You, off-guard? I wonder - does it have something to do with a certain beautiful, red-haired young woman?"

Nothing changes in Tywin Lannister's expression. Not a muscle flinches. And even so, his brother  _knows_ he has put his finger on it. 

"And what do you think to know, precisely, Kevan?" the Old Lion asks, his voice colder than ice. Kevan chooses to ignore the daggers in his brother's eyes. 

"Nothing. I just...happened to watch the elevators' surveillance video - nobody else looks at those videos, you know that, but I couldn't understand why the reports indicate one access to the top floor and the roof, and... Was she who I think she is?"

"What if she is?"

"N-nothing, Ty, nothing at all," he shrugs. "You're a grown man, you surely are entitled to a bit of...entertainment..." He catches his brother's look, then, and immediately feels his whole body freezing on the spot. "You mean  _it's not_ _?_ " he cannot help but to ask. Never in his life could he even just imagine that his brother...

Tywin's green eyes are stones when finally land on him. 

"If I recall correctly, the one thing I asked you for was to deal with Joffrey. Everything else - I dare to say - it is just  _not_ your concern."


	34. Chapter 34

Sansa Stark is starting to find the meeting she's attending to  _definitely boring_. She's perfectly aware it's important, and in normal conditions, she could even find the topic at hand quite interesting, but... She shakes her head, imperceptibly. It has nothing to do with the topic. It's her brother's voice. Robb's preposterously arrogant and paternalistic voice. 

He's not a bad man, and he's a fair boss to their employees, still, he takes such a pompous tone when he's addressing the board she'd like to slap him and shout him he's not their Dad and it's time he stops with his attempts to sound like him. Authority is not something you  _talk_ others into. You must have it in yourself, and Robb just hasn't, not yet. Ironically, it is Jon the one who seems to inspire that kind of respect from other people - and still, Jon is too fully aware of his status of an adoptive son to try and undermine his beloved brother's first place in the company. Jon couldn't be more like the late Ned Stark if the man had fathered him himself - and yet, he just seems happy with his supportive role. Sansa will never understand this idiocy. But she will never understand Robb, either.

She suppresses a yawn and checks her phone.

Nothing.

She is almost tempted to feel angry for that silence, but then again, she's too bored for that. So she unlocks the display and opens her favorite conversation.

-  _So bored right now, I can feel my flesh falling off my bones._

It's just a matter of seconds before the low buzz.

-  _Now, now. Such a waste._


	35. Chapter 35

Sansa reads, and while her face stays perfectly stoic, on the inside she's kind of  _doing cartwheels_. Gods, she likes these quick replies. 

-  _A waste, no less?_  

She pushes, adding a blinking emoji next to the question mark. 

-  _I can think of loads of activities, concerning your flesh, better than let it drop from your bones..._

Sansa honestly has no idea whether she's more amused by the innuendo or the monocled emoji he attached to it. Either way, she  _is_ amused.

"Sansa, are you still with us?" Robb's voice startles. 

"I got distracted, sorry. Were you saying...?" 

 "Next Saturday's party," Robb repeated. "I need you to check the guest list before sending out the invitations." 

Sansa can  _feel it_. She can clearly feel the rude answer forming on her tongue - it's not her job, for goodness' sake, there are plenty of secretaries who can check the damn list! But as she opens her mouth to snap back to him, another thought shots through her mind, so glorious and evil she has to struggle with her lips for not smiling openly. "Of course, of course. I'll check it right away as soon as the meeting's over, no problem." 

 _And I'll make some..._ adjustments _, just at my leisure..._

"Very well. Thank you." 

"You're welcome," she says happily before unlocking her smartphone again.

-  _I really hope you've no plans for Saturday night_...


	36. Chapter 36

"What is it?" Tywin asks, looking at the envelope on his desk and at her, standing in front of it, over his glasses. She tries to lock away for a moment the whole set of emotions he stirs in her when wearing his reading glasses and shrugs. 

"Why don't you open it and see for yourself?" She teases him, leaning over the polished surface just a little, her fingertips lightly resting over it. It's dark outside, and they're the only occupants of his entire floor by now - nothing unusual, nothing unpredictable - so he doesn't object to giving her - and her mysterious envelope - his immediate attention. There's something familiar, in this simple game of closed envelopes, something recalling their quite recent past, something about both their weekend and her cryptic texts. 

He reads and his face remains still as a statue. He reads again. He removes his glasses and abandons them on a pile of papers. 

"Are you serious?" 

"I rarely am not," she replies, sharply. This is not the reaction she hoped for. This...coldness, this caution... She just can't stand when he uses this reasonable, paternalistic tone. 

"This is not what I meant." 

"No?" 

"No." He gets out of his presidential chair as the sarcastic hint in her voice hits him. "Sansa..."

" _Don't patronize me_ ," she hisses. This is not going the way she had figured. Part of her screams inside her head to stop complaining, for it's only natural that he has reservations about going to a Stark Ltd. party. It's only natural that he's not totally in with the idea of appearing in public with her. It's too soon, and it definitely cannot be considered an issue... Still, she does nothing to soften her first reaction. "What is it? Stark Ltd. is too far below you? Is it me? You do not want to be seen with me? I'm the girl to be kept unseen inside a box at the theatre, after all, am I not?" 

Tywin Lannister just stands behind his desk, rooted to the spot - such ire has caught him by surprise and for a long moment, he fails to understand what is actually happening. And in that same long moment, Sansa Stark takes her decision, turns on her heels and walks to the door. 

It's seeing her wandering off that finally does the trick - in a couple of long strides he crosses his office, stops her as she lowers the handle. The door bangs closed. 

"What the fuck are we talking about, here, Sansa?" 


	37. Chapter 37

Sansa grinds her teeth and turns slowly, facing him with a defiant look. Her entire figure is tense, almost trembling from her pent-up anger. 

"Saturday night. You won't come, will you." Tywin stares at her, frowns.

"And how on earth do you think you know? You didn't let me say a word!" 

"Oh, sorry, my fault!" she declaims, dramatically. "Please." A well-manicured hand emphasizes the word with an ample movement. She senses tears prickling at her eyes, but she knows all too well that not one of them will be shed - not in his presence, at least. 

"I just asked you whether you were serious," he starts, and she snaps once again.

"Yes, _that_ I can remember."

"And you  _completely got the wrong idea_." Sansa's blue eyes nailed him with an implacable look and she crosses her arms with slow, menacing determination. 

"I did, didn't I." 

Tywin Lannister is not a patient man, he never was. He possesses the patience of the most lethal predator, yes, but not the kind of patience one usually associates with the idea of  _persuasion_ : he's a man who rarely asks, often demands, never begs for things to happen. He's not a religious man - he doesn't hope, he doesn't pray. He doesn't  _wait_. 

Sansa Stark is changing him, and he's both fascinated and alarmed by this simple truth. Sansa Stark is the reason why he isn't reacting the way one could expect  _Tywin Lannister_ to react. He's not shrugging. He's not dismissing her pain - for _it is_ pain: he knows pain all too well, and it's pain what's in her eyes - as something meaningless or childish. He's not rebuking her for misunderstanding his reaction. 

He reaches out for her, brushes his hand lightly on her arm. "Yes, you did," he says softly, his gaze never leaving her eyes. She looks back at him and she's suddenly insecure, scared, yet she doesn't give up an inch. Her jaw's still clenched, her lips pressed together - how easier and more satisfying would it be, just kissing her fears away... But he knows her, and he knows that such an outcome would be only temporary: she needs, she  _crave_ reassurance, and the reassurance she needs is one that has to pass through words, too. For he's a man who rarely voices his feelings, and she knows it, and she needs to see how far he's prepared to go for her. "What I meant with that apparently poor choice of words was - are you sure about going public? Won't you regret it?" 

Sansa breaths heavily, her chest moving slowly up and down in a way the Old Lion starts finding difficult to ignore - but he forces himself to, for the circumstances call for something definitely deeper than lust. He inches towards her until he's towering over her, both his hands now massaging her arms and shoulder. 

"Will you?" she asks back, minutes later. Tywin brings one hand to cup her cheek and looks intently at her with such an intensity one could believe he's pouring his whole soul into her eyes. His thumb grazes lightly her cheekbone, his mouth descends on hers. 

"Never."


	38. Chapter 38

The door's surface is cold, and hard against her back, but Sansa Stark couldn't care less - all she can think of, presently, assuming it could be called  _thinking_ , is Tywin: more precisely, Tywin's  _hands_ , roaming up her thighs and bottom, and Tywin's  _lips_ , devouring hers as his life depends on it, and more generally Tywin's  _presence_ , looming all over her... 

He sucks hard at her neck and Sansa closes her eyes, abandoning her head against the wooden door; familiar and well-known, she recognizes the pressure against her stomach and promptly sneaks her left leg around his, lifting it achingly slowly to his hips - Tywin's hands push her pencil skirt up, up, in order to ease both her and his position; his fingers graze seductively the hem of her stockings, tracing the path to her core with the lightest touch. 

He finds she's wet,  _so wet_ , just for him, and the mere thought of being about to take her in his very own office arouses him even more: or, at least, he  _thinks_ it does, until Sansa's hands reach down for his belt and start fumbling with it and his trousers. In that very moment, he sincerely fears he's going to spend himself even before she frees him completely.

He stops.

He decides to put some distance between them, he knows he must, but all he can get is a mere few inches - definitely not enough to placate his hunger, but just enough for her to shoot an outraged look at him. She's so fierce, and so blatantly  _angry_ , that once again he feels himself stiffen uncomfortably. "Couch," he grunts, and the thin, pressed line of Sansa's lips suddenly opens in a flashing smile. 

He guides them both to the luxurious Chesterfield, never stopping the increasingly daring touches and kisses. She couldn't be more perfect than he sees her in this moment, he thinks - then she pushes him to sit down, and straddles him without ceremonies; both her and his hands meet on her blouse's buttons, trying to free them without causing damages - in a snap, a soft rain of mother-of-pearl shank buttons unmistakably signals their mutual defeat and Tywin Lannister cannot help a sudden, almost painful intake of breath at the view. 

"I want you inside me," Sansa whispers hoarsely in his ear, circling his member with her hand and lifting in his lap to better positioning it at her entrance. 

"Ah, naughty, naughty girl," he exhales, as soon as he realizes the presence of an  _absolutely convenient_ opening in her burgundy underwear. 

"Naughty?" she mocks him and stops, his tip just slightly prodding at her warmth. "I'd say, forward-thinking..." 

Tywin Lannister's green eyes locked with Sansa's, his hands land possessively on her buttocks. "Maybe there's truth in both," he approves. Sansa nods, and her hips give in to the tiniest of movements - Tywin's cock slides easily into her, completely, and he cannot suppress an appreciative groan when Sansa's walls contract around him as a welcome.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, SOOOOO sorry for not being able to update for so long...! RL's been a huge mess - I was in a quite darker place than usual, and - unusually - this fact kept me from writing... I just couldn't talk myself into writing, and it made everything even more upsetting, given that generally writing is what keeps me balanced... BUT now I feel a little better, so hey, I'm giving it a try! Again - sorry for the absence, and the abnormally long wait!   
> I hope you'll enjoy this update! xxx

There's something unlikely, something out of place, Tywin realizes, somewhere in the deepest corner of his mind. Frantic  _couplings_ at the office aren't supposed to involve such intensity, everyone could say it, and yet...

Yet, it's Sansa who's draped around him, welcoming him inside her, warming him with her sudden fire. And it's Sansa he's holding to his chest, it's Sansa's the neck he's lavishing in kisses. It's Sansa's skin he's tracing and marking, Sansa's perfume he's intoxicating himself with - Sansa's name he goes on repeating,  _he_ , who's never a talkative man. Yet her name is on his lips, again and again, whispered and holy like a prayer. 

She's _everything_ and he knew it, but he knows it, even more, now, as she's like molten wax into his hand and he draws her nearer, breasts against his chest, so tight one could think he's trying to absorb her whole person into himself - or to dissolve completely into her. 

He spends himself into her - hard, suddenly, desperately - without being able to wait for her release, and he's mortified before she smiles at him, "Don't worry, silly." She kisses his furrowed brow, guides his hand to where their bodies are joined. It's a matter of mere seconds before she comes around him, releasing every last bit of energy still in her body. So they linger, spent and intertwined, sated and holding each other like the most precious treasure, until Sansa's voice breaks the sudden silence.

"Ask me again, if you dare," she lazily mocks him, her lips against the side of his neck.

"Mh?"

"Ask me again whether I was serious." 

His fingers trace slowly her backbone under her scathed blouse and he inhales deeply, his eyes closed to better enjoy the moment.

"Are you serious, Sansa? About going public and face everything that both your family and mine - and the press, too - will predictably throw at us?" 

Sansa Stark presses her lips against the soft skin of his neck and sucks determinedly, teasing with her tongue for a while and stopping only when the result appease her. "So serious I've just left a mark where everyone can see it," she replies playfully - and laughs, and laughs, and her voice fills his office and her hair is like fire all around them. 

"If you don't stop laughing, I'm afraid I will have to silence you, Miss Stark," he warns her, and she recognizes both the mischievousness in his tone and the familiar stir of his member inside her. 

"That is something I wouldn't complain of, Mister Lannister..." her hips move slightly in his lap, her walls tighten around him, but he stops her with a smirk.

"Neither you nor I, but I'm not sure the sofa agrees... Let's say it's not used to such _bumpy_ activities, mh?" 

 


	40. Chapter 40

Curled up on her sofa, Sansa Starks sips her morning coffee without being able to brush that sated smile from her lips. 

 _Yes_ , she has to admit, one of her favourite blouses is now beyond repair, but even so... She turns her head, smiles affectionately at the neatly folded sweater on her table.  _His_ sweater. 

"I'm sorry for..." he had gestured towards her now buttonless blouse, blatantly amused. "And for this. It  _is_ an ugly sweater, but then again, you know Robert, elegance was never his strongest skill."

"I still have to cross the city, and given  _this_ , when the only alternative is a jumper uncle Robert got you, well, I think I can manage. But yes, it  _is_ an ugly sweater," she had laughed, then, and as her head had finally popped out of the round neckline she had found him bent over her, an enigmatic curl on his lips. 

"It looks better on you, though," he had complimented in an ironic tone. "You should keep it."

Sansa had propped herself on her toes and kissed him quickly. "Not in a million year."

"Why not?"

"Well," she had considered, stressing the vowel with gusto, "it had proven itself useful, didn't it? I cannot assure it won't be useful again..." 

 _Yes,_ she tells herself once again,  _it could prove itself useful again_. For she has every intention to give his office at least another try.

The mere thought of it sends shivers down her spine and Sansa almost moan in her cup as she looks up at the clock.

9.30.

Surely, by now, his brother will be wondering how on earth address the subject of the lovebite she left him...  

 

 

\---   ---   ---   ---   ---   ---   ---   ---   ---

"For goodness' sake, Kevan, yes. Just  _stop staring_."

"What?"

"I said,  _yes_. Yes, it's a hickey. And yes, it's _her_ doing. So please, stop staring at me like that. It's unnerving." 

"I'd rather say  _unsettling_ , brother. With both the cut and that... _mark_ , you're starting to look like a pirate. And a pirate with a particularly busy life, nonetheless." 

Tywin scoffs, rolls his eyes. "She said something similar."

"Tywin..." Despite the cautious tone of his brother's voice, Tywin roars in reply.

" _What_!"

"I'm just..." Kevan Lannister breaths in, shakes his head, trying to understand how to voice it. " _...concerned_ , ok? Just concerned. For you, for the company, and yes, for  _her_ , too - did you two just stop and consider for a moment how devastating this... _thing_ could be, if it goes out of control and..." 

"It will be out in public soon enough," Tywin snaps. His brother's face is a mask of pure horror. "Don't stare, Kevan."

"You're kidding me, aren't you? I - I mean - how on earth - how - why - you can't possibly-"

"Don't be ridiculous, Kevan - of course, I can. And no, I'm not kidding. I don't see why I should, honestly."

"But you're...  _You_ , Tywin, and she's... Gods, she's  _damn young_ , for one thing - and there are many others, you know."

 Tywin looks totally unimpressed - his brother's reaction was more than predictable. Oddly enough, though, he's not upset by it. "Let's be clear, Kevan, mh? You're not  _really_ trying and dissuade me about something that's entirely  _my_ concern and not at all yours, are you?"

Kevan Lannister holds his stare, shrugs. "As I previously stated, you're a grown man.  _But_ precisely because you're a grown man, you've got responsibilities. Towards yourself and this family, yes, but most of all, towards  _her_. Don't throw her to the wolves just because you're attracted to her and want to make a statement about it."

"You seem to forget she  _is_ a wolf. And for your information,  _she_ 's the one who wants to go public. Not me. I just...  _happen_ to agree with her."

Kevan stares back at his brother, transfixed and open-mouthed. 


	41. Chapter 41

Tywin Lannister's personal assistant enters his office with a worried expression and a paper bag in her hands. 

"What is it?" he asks brusquely, quite annoyed by this unexpected interruption. 

"A courier just brought this, Mr. Lannister. For you." 

"And  _what is it_ _?_ " he insists. She knows she should have opened it - she always opens everything addressed to him beforehand, for both security reasons and the fact he does  _not_ like surprises - but the messenger was clear about it...

"I don't know, sir. It came with precise instructions. Apparently, and I quote, it is  _for your eyes only_." 

Tywin grunts, debating with himself whether to reproach her about security issues, but he finally decides he can look past it - _for your eyes only_ it's the kind of phrase Sansa positively could use "Drop it there on the table, I'll look at it when I finish here."

"Yes, Mr. Lannister, sir."

At that, Tywin smirks. He  _loves_ when he instills fear in his staff... He definitely loves it. 

Pushing his glasses back on his nose, he forces himself to actually finish what he was doing, instead of interrupting his work in order to take a peek into the infamous bag. And for half an hour he succeeds. Then, however, he capitulates. The mere presence of the bag, with its mysterious content, is enough to distract him. 

When he finds his ugly sweater, first, he finds himself barely able to stifle laughter: the  _incorrigible girl_ _!_ He's almost reached out for his smartphone when he realizes there's something else at the bottom of the bag. Something  _wrapped,_ in a dark paper and with a thin, dark orange ribbon. He picks it up, intrigued, wondering if pairing black with a colour so much like her hair was a coincidence. Frankly, he doubts it. 

A warm, soft sensation graze his fingers as soon as he opens the wrapping, and he instantly recognizes it.  _Cachemire_. A thick, and yet lightweight cardigan emerges from the paper, and this time he cannot help to grab his phone and write to her. 

-  _Was my ugly sweater so inexcusably ugly, then?_

Her reply takes less than half a minute. 

_\- You know perfectly well it was. It is, actually. You should get rid of it._

_\- EXCUSE ME, I tried._

_\- EXCUSE ME, I am not your trash bin..._

_\- True. Still, this new one has_ elbow patches _._

 _\- I know! As it happens, I like them_ very _much._

_\- Mh. And exactly, how much?_

He's enjoying this, he has to admit it. He's enjoying himself despite the fact that part of his brain is actually shouting he shouldn't. He was never a man keen to waste his time in futile communications, and yet... 

-  _Oh, Tywin. I like them "sexy British professor"-much - if you must know._

 _\- Ah,_ this _is noteworthy..._

_\- Yes, it is. And you might want to keep that in mind ;) ;) ;)_

Tywin Lannister stops to stare at the three winking emojis, amused and even more intrigued than before.

Yes, he says to himself. He  _will_ keep that in mind. 


	42. Chapter 42

"That's why I'm supposed to be there before anyone else arrives," Sansa snorts, annoyed. She's sitting on the floor of Tywin's office, huddled up against his chest, her head abandoned on his shoulder and a tumbler in her left hand. They're drinking his best single malt for a while, by now, but neither the good whiskey nor the cuddling seems enough to ease her disappointment.

"Well, one could argue that's because you're doing a great job, so you deserve to look like the lady of the house..." 

"Yeah, that for sure," she scoffs, turning slightly to shoot him a glance full of sarcasm. "Too bad I am  _most definitely not_ the lady of the house, mh?" Tywin finds himself quite stunned by the force of her bitterness on the matter - he nuzzles her neck, softly, caressing her skin with his breath as he speaks.

"You  _could_ be, you know," he murmurs, and out of the sudden, he realizes all the implications such words could bear. Just as suddenly, though, he realizes he doesn't care whether she picks those implications in their most radical sense or not. Funny how thoughts unfurl, sometimes - they were just talking about a party, and out of the blue, his mind decides to show him flashes of how utterly beautiful would be, living with her? 

"Nah, it's  _Robb's_ place, everybody could tell you. Robb's, and sometimes Jon's, but not mine. I'm just the sister who organizes wonderful parties sparing to the company any need of hiring professionals." 

Tywin puts down his own glass on the floor, in order to better sneak his arms around her - he knows how she craves for this kind of proximity when she's in such a dark place, and he's more than happy to comply. There's something else, though. Something that went out of place as soon as she read his words in their easiest and more immediate sense. 

"I say, you  _could_ be the lady of the house - and I mean, nowhere is it written that it should be your brother's house." 

Sansa stops with the tumbler halfway to her lips and stretches towards him again, looking for his eyes. "Are you proposing to me, Mr. Lannister?"

"I just want you to know I am not against such an option," he smirks. "What about you?"

"I'm not against such an option, either," she kisses him lightly on the lips. "But first things first - Saturday you'll have to enter the party all by yourself," she pouted. "And to think that I savoured the idea of our big entrance so much..." 

"Mh. I can see your point," Tywin nods, inhaling her scent as his lips rest against the side of her neck. "Now you tell me, it's quite disappointing, indeed..." His mouth travels slightly up, to the sensitive spot behind her ear, "But I think I could always..."

"If you're about to say you won't come, I am warning you: my revenge will be-"

"Shush," he continues his ministrations and despite her roaring complain he feels she's slowly melting against him. "I was about to suggest, I can always enter all by myself, then catch up with you where anyone can see us, and surprise you with a kiss that sweeps you off your feet in front of everyone." 

"Oh, my, Mr. Lannister," Sansa sighs, finally turning completely between his legs in order to face him properly, "what they say about you is true, then! You truly are a wicked man!"

"You might say that, Miss Stark. You most definitely might say that."


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the most wonderful readers!!! I definitely DO NOT deserve your kind words, but I am so grateful for the time you spend in reading and even more in letting me know you appreciate my little work!   
> You make my day - every time. And I thank you from the deepest of my heart: THANK YOU ♥

"You did a wonderful job, Sansa. Not that I ever doubted, but  _wow_. Everything looks just perfect."

"And  _you_ look more than perfect yourself," Jon lifts his glass in her direction, filling the gap left in Robb's compliments.

"Of course she does, she always looks-"

"Breathtaking," the pretty girl at her brother's arm smiles adoringly, and Sansa smiles back, proud that her accurate preparations for the evening could have elicited such enthusiasm.

"Thank you, Jayne - is everything to your liking? May I assume that in a quite near future you'll be the one dealing with our parties' planning?"

Jayne blushes profusely, bows her head towards Robb's shoulder. "I hope so," he replies. 

"I'll be in desperate need of your expertise, though," Jayne interjects, her brown eyes full of anticipation. Sansa's hand lands affectionately on her forearm.

"Of course," she put all of herself in reassuring her. "Whatever should you think you need, I will be happy to-"

" _What the seven hells is he doing here?"_

 _Ah_ , thinks Sansa without even casting a look to where her brothers are looking,  _this definitely is the signal_. She inhales, holding her breath for a moment longer than necessary before turning to the door. 

"He owns two-thirds of the entire building, Robb. Inviting him was simple politeness," she says, so coldly that Jon turns to her with a puzzled expression on his face. 

" _You_ invited him?"

"Yes. After your unspeakable behavior, sending an invitation to our party looked like just what was needed - you'll welcome him as the guest he is, and..."

"He was not on the list I gave you." Sansa's eyes meet Tywin's for the briefest moment, and she suddenly finds difficult to maintain the strict composure she's lecturing her brother with.

"So what? It was  _your_ mistake, not mine. I merely correct it - so now you can properly apologize, but there's no need for you to thank me, don't worry." 

"I most certainly will not do anything of the sort!" 

"Sansa's right, Robb," Jon intervenes, although in a tentative tone that irritates Sansa almost as much as Robb's stubbornness. "We  _did_ overdo a bit, at the Opera, that night."

"No, we didn't!"

Sansa turns quickly, trying to catch Tywin's gaze and reassure him that everything's well, but she misses him - she's halfway a snappy "Spare us another scene, Robb, please" when a deep, cold voice speaks at her side, freezing every other living thing on the spot. 

"Let me thank you for inviting me tonight, Mr. Stark. It's been a pleasant surprise, I have to say."


	44. Chapter 44

"Mr. Lannister, it's such a pleasure," it's Jayne Westerling the one reacting first, and Sansa registers with a sigh of relief how her future sister-in-law seems perfectly at her ease welcoming  _the_ unexpected guest despite Robb's first reaction. 

"Miss Westerling," Tywin nods, formal but quite easy. He goes so far as to accept her timid gesture of two shy and tentative kisses on his cheeks - her family is an old acquaintance of his, of course, but she's here as Robb Stark's fiancée and the Old Lion has no interest in making any small talk - he's there in order to make a statement, more like, but it's not time, yet. The reason why he seconded her movement, though, is pure strategy: now he can turn to Sansa - and he does - and kiss her, too, on both cheeks. The whole thing takes her by surprise, he can say it - and even more so, when on the second kiss something apparently goes wrong with measurements and instead of touching cheek against cheek they briefly brush the other's corner of the lips. 

When Tywin draws back, he enjoys _immensely_ her sudden blush. "May I..." She stammers, "May I get you something to drink?" She manages somehow, not looking at him. 

"I would be delighted," Tywin accepts coldly before following her. "Keep smiling," he whispers, sincerely amused, "or they'll know that was all for show..." 

"You're a fucking bastard, Tywin Lannister," she whispers back almost without moving her lips. She's smiling graciously, radiantly - the perfect host to the perfect party - but he can see in the back of her eyes how much his stunt has upset her. 

"Really, Sansa. It was just -"

"I can feel Robb's stare burning the skin on my neck," she hissed, still smiling. 

"I can go and tell him to stop - if you want."

Her hand lands immediately on his forearm, her eyes wide open. "No!" She finds herself quite irritated, when all he replies is a soft chuckle. "You're making fun of me."

"Just a bit." 

Sansa puts a glass in his hand and brings her to her lips. "You're the worst, aren't you." 

"So they say," he nods towards the Stark brothers, clearly enjoying himself. Sansa empties her glass in little less than a gulp. She cannot understand why on earth, of all the occasions he's been - well -  _himself_ , tonight he clearly has chosen this unexpected light mood. With the most unfortunate timing, the music started playing.

She can see how Jayne is forcing Robb to dance while Jon, shy as he always has been, chooses to sit at one of the tables and immediately gets caught in conversation with their head of accounts, Baelish. She instinctively frowns - she never liked the man, despite his impressive talent with numbers. They rarely cross paths, though, so she never gives him too much importance. 

"Your sister-in-law to be is looking this way," Tywin smiles politely, raising his glass towards the couple on the dance floor. "I dare to say, we are expected to join them..."

Sansa's eyes shine in awe. "Dancing with you? In front of everyone?" He bows his head slightly, struggling with himself in order to conceal the satisfied smile on his lips. Sansa is in his arms in the blink of an eye.


	45. Chapter 45

Sansa looks at herself in the mirror of the ladies' room as she washes her hands, and she has to admit, she likes what she sees. A beautiful woman, yes, but for once, a  _happy_ woman, too. Being able to spend time in Tywin's company right under her brothers' noses is somewhat exhilarating and she truly is enjoying herself a great deal. 

 _And how handsome did he look_ , holding her near as they danced - she cannot help but think, drying her hands in a paper towel before throwing it in the bin. She's still smiling when a voice interrupts her thoughts, freezing her on the spot. 

"So it's  _you_ my grandfather's snogging at the moment," Joffrey sneers malevolently. "You surely were quite pathetic, out there, you know." 

"Joffrey, please. I don't have the time for-"

"I'm talking to you, bitch! And given that now I see it was you who poisoned him against me, the least you could do is..."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Joff. Stand aside." Her voice is icy cold, her demeanor stern - she is not afraid of him, not anymore. She crosses her arms, defiantly, seeing he's not done, yet. 

"You dare to say it wasn't you, talking him into cutting my income? We know  _perfectly well_  how vindictive you are! You're punishing me for dumping you, mh? You pathetic..."

He moves a step towards her, but a piercing female scream stops him - Jayne is on the threshold, looking at the scene, horrified. Robb's here in a moment - and a moment later he's on Joffrey, fists closed on his shirt, slamming him into the nearby wall. 

Sansa sighs heavily, at unease. The turmoil is such that anyone, by now, will surely have noticed - and frankly, it's the last thing they needed. 

"Get your hands off my grandson, boy," comes Tywin's voice, out of the blue. Robb lets Joffrey go in an instant, while every gaze is now on the Lannister patriarch. Sansa's gaze is on him, too, and Tywin can see how saddened and hurt she looks at the interruption. He can understand why she would have liked to see Joffrey thoroughly punched, after all. And yet there's something in their mutual stare - both Tywin's and Sansa's - which speaks volume about what happened, with no need for words: and Tywin's nod, despite unnoticed by everyone in the hall, it doesn't go unnoticed by her.

"Are you hurt?" Tywin asks Joffrey, and the boy smirks arrogantly towards the Starks before nodding in his grandfather's direction.

"Of course not," he gloats.

"Well," the Old Lion grins in return.

And everything happens in a split second, the movement is too quick to register - one moment Joffrey's bragging because of his escape, a moment later he's kneeling on the floor, hands pressed against his face, dripping blood all over the floor, and the Old Lion is absentmindedly wiping clean his right hand with his monogrammed handkerchief. 

"You bastard!" spits his grandson, "You broke my nose!" 

Tywin Lannister takes a couple of steps and stops next to him, towering and imposing and majestic as the old king from a fairy tale. "And I'll do worse, should you try and approach Miss Stark ever again. Is it clear?"

"It's true, then!" the boy cries, "You  _are-_ "

"Don't push your luck," Tywin's deep voice cut him off, then he turns to Robb Stark, "If I were you I'd instruct your security staff to escort him out of the building, but I'm afraid it's not my place." 

Robb Starks nods and Joffrey is out of their sight in a few seconds; when the young wolf turns to his sister, though, a look of concern on his face, he finds that Jon has done the same. "Are you ok?" both her brothers ask her, and Sansa smiles, her eyes filled with tears.

She's not smiling at them, though. And in the blink of an eye, she's between Tywin Lannister's arms, hugging him and sobbing quietly against his perfectly ironed white shirt.


	46. Chapter 46

They stand there, perfectly still, perfectly encased in one another, and neither of them speaks a word. They just breathe, eyes closed and arms affectionately wrapped around the other's body, a perfect, close system, functioning in its own. 

They know there are other people - plenty of other people, judging by the buzz now exploding around them, but Sansa cannot bring herself to let him go, to open her eyes and turn her head from his chest to the rest of the world - not that she _cannot_ face them; she just  _doesn't want_ to. She doesn't want Tywin's hold on her to loosen, she doesn't want to walk away from that warmth - for he's holding her against his chest and he's doing  _properly_ , his hands open on her spine and neck, his jaw resting against the side of her head. 

And she just doesn't want to end, ok? Is it too much to ask?

"Sansa?" Jon calls, warily, wondering how to handle things without starting a scandal. Robb's clearly boiling, but Jon is deeply grateful for Jayne's presence and the way she's managing to keep his brother's temper under control. Of course, he must be out of himself seeing Sansa surrounded by the Old Lion's arms in such a...well, in such a  _familiar_ way - he's upset, too, but at this point, it's quite difficult to try and deny there's something going on between the two... 

Sansa gives nothing more than a guttural sound in reply, refusing to open her eyes. 

"It's over, San. He's gone," he tries again. With the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Jeyne gesturing for the others to go back to the party. Oddly enough, they accomplish, giving up on any chance to witness the potential showdown, and Jon feels a wave of gratitude towards the girl. 

"I know," Sansa mumbles, but she doesn't move an inch. It's Tywin who finally gives in, opens his eyes and makes eye contact with her brothers - reassuringly with Jon, in a slightly menacing way with Robb, as challenging him to question what's happening. When both the boys remain quiet, Tywin moves gently his hands to Sansa's shoulder blades, caressing her through the fabric in a soothing way - something that gave them (and their relationship) away almost immediately, and something neither Jon nor Robb, closely watched by Jeyne, dare to dream of contesting. 

"Sansa," he just says, and once again she sighs, this time with resignation.

"I know, I know," she nods, and then she turns to her family, managing somehow a little smile. "Thanks, Robb," she says in a little voice. Robb shakes his head, shrugging. They all know something has to be said, but it's equally clear that no one is actually in the right state of mind - and feelings - to do so. Sansa turns back again, then, looking for Tywin's eyes.

"Bring me home, Tywin? Please?"

They walk away, resolutely and hand in hand, the next moment, leaving the Starks absolutely appalled and speechless on the spot.


	47. Chapter 47

"I'm sorry," Sansa exhales for what it could easily be the millionth time. Tywin, who's holding her close on his luxurious sofa and he's been doing the very thing for hours, scoffs.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Sansa..." Her head is on his chest, and he knows - even he cannot see it - that her eyes are closed. She didn't shed a tear over what happened at the party, not a single one during all the time it took to arrive at his mansion, not a single one since they silently nestled on his couch. She's grieving, though, and it's blatantly clear. She needs space, she needs time - she needs to feel  _safe_ , and Tywin is determined to give her whatever she could ask for. Joffrey's head is quite high on his personal list of options, to be honest. 

"Yes, it is. This definitely was  _not_ the outcome I had in mind for tonight - neither the one  _you_ had, mh?"

Tywin's lips curl as he lazily tightens his hold on her frame, caressing his way down her side. "Well, I might argue I actually  _have_ you in my arms, tonight," he points out. 

"Yes, but-"

"No  _buts_ , miss Stark. You cannot possibly argue the definition - you  _are_ here, aren't you? And I  _am_ holding you, am I not? That's all that means. This is  _everything_."

"Oh, Tywin," she sighs, hiding her face against his neck. Her breath is warm on his skin, as warm as his hand on her hip. "You did never strike me as the kind who has familiarity with self-restraint and sacrifice," she tries to humor him, but there's a sudden contraction, although brief, in his fingers, that gives him away immediately.

"I had my share of self-restraint and sacrifice, in my life, believe me," he replies, in a voice that's not entirely able to conceal his... _hurt_? His reputation is that of a man who ever took whatever he wanted - why did her innocent joke hit him so hard? Why cannot he stand the mere idea of her thinking he's just the arrogant, powerful lion everyone else see? Sansa senses something's wrong and lifts her head, looking for his eyes.

"I'm sorry. I did not mean..."

Tywin Lannister smiles sadly as his left hand cups her cheek. "No offense taken," he assures her, but when he sees the doubt in her gaze he pulls her gently, kisses her forehead with reverence. "You're tired, I know. Rest a little, mh?"

Sansa's arms encircle him on their own volition as she gets back in their original position. Tywin hugs her back, his jaw resting against the top of her head as she dozes off - his eyes remain open, though, his thoughts fixed in one point: when on earth did she become the most important things in his life?


	48. Chapter 48

He must have dozed off, sometimes during the night, because now he's becoming aware of his body gradually awakening - it's still pitch dark, outside the windows, but something, or, more accurately, _someone,_ is teasing him, currently nipping at his jaw with gentle deliberation. His hands sneak up Sansa's back, tracing her backbone, and she pauses.

"You're awake," she says. 

"Was it not your goal?" he asks, and there's an alluring undertone in his question. After all, he muses, there's no way she's not aware of his current...state, given their position. 

"What if it was? Are you complaining, Mr. Lannister?"

"Most certainly not, Miss Stark," he smiles, capturing her lips in a soft, yet deep kiss. Despite the awful scene at the party, and the slow path they had chosen after it, he can now sense the change in her - mortification now gone, and guilt now subdued, it's clear how her need to be with him has changed in the past few hours: a few hours changed a lot of things, turning the initial need of silence and rest (and cuddling) into something different, deeper, more primal and urgent. Sansa's hands are now under his shirt, and Tywin's actually thinking of flipping their respective positions when she stops and props herself up to better look at him. 

"It's not because I got upset," she states seriously. "This has nothing to do with Joffrey, or the party, or my family, or..."

"I know." His hand is warm and reassuring at the nape of her neck as he guides her back down for another kiss. She hums appreciatively and straddles him, giving another appreciative - and guttural - moan as she fully experiences his current state of excitement against her lower regions. "Are we going to try out another couch, Sansa?" he mocks her, reaching for her hips. Sansa laughs. 

"If you ask me, we can try every corner of this house..." She feels brave, brazen. 

"This can be arranged," he agrees as his fingers dip into the firm flesh of her bottom. Sansa slaps his forearm and laughs once again.

" _But_ what I'd like, right now, is for you to take me to bed." 

"And?" 

"And make love to me..." she says, kissing him lightly before standing up. He can see just her back, now, so she turns a fraction, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, before adding, "...as a lion takes its lioness." 

Tywin, speechless, is behind her in a moment.


	49. Chapter 49

"Mhh," Sansa moans, enjoying what Tywin's lips are doing to the nape of her neck and down her shoulder, "I must say, I am glad you found me," she says teasingly, her hand lifted to caress him and keep him in place at the same time. 

"It wasn't difficult," he mocks her, "given that this is my bedroom..."

"Oh, is it? I never-  _Tywin_!" she shrieks, laughing, as his hands sneak to her breasts.

"What?" His mouth leaves wet kisses on her skin and she finds herself melting against his imposing form. Everything's too hot, too  _stimulating_ , for her to keep coherent thoughts in line. She stirs in his grip, brushing his front with her silk-covered backside, and Tywin growls as the sensation of the fabric of her dress under his fingers, combined to her little, but brazen, moves, awakes dark desires in every inch of his body. "You're a temptress, Miss Stark. You can't possibly blame me for -  _good grief, Sansa_!" He growls again, and she knows perfectly well why. The layers provided by both his trousers and her delicate, expensive dress are not even remotely enough to mask how hard he is against her back. 

Sansa leans against him, slightly turning her head to look sideways at him. "Well, Mr. Lannister?" she pokes him, "Are you going to help me out of this dress or what?" 

Tywin chuckles as his hands finally leave her front. He unzips her slowly, perfectly aware she's as eager as him but savouring the tiny morsel of power he still has over her. As soon as the dress pools at her feet in a cascade of silk, though, and she steps out of it in her heels and undergarments and -  _gods have mercy -_ actually  _bends over his bed_ , Tywin knows without a doubt she's the one with all the power. 

He, on the other hand, is the one desperately uncomfortable in his own trousers. 

"You're trying to kill me, aren't you," he sighs, tracing her underwear' hem with his fingers. 

"Not quite, no. It would go against my interests..." He chuckles again, then, and hooks his fingers beneath the fabric, finally sliding her panties down her legs and revealing her. She's such a view he finds himself quite worried he's going to come before even getting rid of his trousers and boxers. He unbuckles his belt hurriedly, pushing down both wear and underwear at one time. He's so hard he _could_ just take her immediately, and maybe that's what she wants, too, but something in the back of his mind prevents him from such an  _unelegant_ behavior - he kneads her buttocks softly for a moment, lowering himself to chastely kiss each of them, then his mouth moves over her center, and he kisses her  _just there_ , obtaining a deep, guttural moan as a reward. 


	50. Chapter 50

When Tywin opens his eyes, Sansa is nowhere to be seen - not in his bed, not in his room; he stays silent and still, trying to catch any sound from his bathroom, but no, apparently she's not there, either. So he gets out of bed, puts his boxers on for decency's sake and takes a look around him. Her dress is still on the floor where they left it a few hours before and he picks it up, placing it on the backrest of the huge armchair. The fabric is like water between his fingers, soft and silky, and he cannot help but think of her hair, so soft and luxurious and oh-so-right in his hands. 

Her purse isn't there, though, and he understands. 

"How bad is it?" he asks from the threshold, not daring to enter the dining room in case she'd rather be alone. When she looks at him, though, she's smiling - a sad smile, yes, but a smile nonetheless - and she gives one of her almost imperceptible shrugs. 

"Forty-seven calls, fifty-two texts. It could have been worse, I guess." Tywin cocks his brow, and her smile broadens when she explains, "At least no-one tried to force their way in and kidnap me back."

"Ah, Sansa," he sighs, crossing the room to her in order to wrap her into his arms. "I would have put up a fight to remember, in that case. I dare to say it would have been a fight to the death..."

"Am I so important for you, then? Truly?" 

She recognizes his entire body tighten under her fingers.  _Wrong question, you stupid girl_ , she reprimands herself, and even more, she does, when Tywin gently disentangled their limbs and put a good arm distance between them. Tears run quickly up to her eyes, pooling dangerously, but she's determined not to show him this weakness and turns her face away from him. He won't see her cry - not for  _him_ , at least. She's not the silly little girl her family - and probably he, too - seem to think she is. She won't cry over a broken heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are the most precious, and I am the worst updater ever seen :(


End file.
